


Verse & Volley, Book One

by boycoffin



Series: Verse & Volley Triptych [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Banter, Canonical Character Death, Choose Your Own Inquisitor, Choose Your Own Quest Choices (except for a few), DLC compliant, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Dorian Pavus needs a Boyfriend, Drawing, Drinking & Talking, Dubiously Accurate Craftsmanship (Direct from Orzammar!), Erotic Poetry, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Gender-Neutral Hawke, Gender-Neutral Inquisitor, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Implied Unrequited Varric/Hawke, Letters, M/M, POV First Person, POV Varric Tethras, Poetry, Propaganda, Secret Identity, Shy Cullen, Skimming Gently Alongside Canon, Slow Build, Thedosian Culture, Varric Tethras' Nicknames, Writers, is it larping if no one knows you're larping and it's through the post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: POSSIBLE TITLES:This Shit Was Even Weirder: A Surprisingly Not-Doomed Romance In The Shadow of the ApocalypseThe Commander and the Roguealready taken, Antivan maritime smut with an elf girl in itHow The Hell I Ended Up With That Guy: A Tale for The People Who Keep Asking Me About It In BarsThe Short and Curliesthat's just terribleLove Among thetropey garbageA Tale of Two Namespretentious and unclearThe Penman's ParamourMemoirs of a Moron (That He's Going to Regret Publishing and Will Never Hear The End Of for As Long As He Lives)





	1. The Drawing, The Will, and The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Our ambassador has informed me that my assistance would be... _appreciated,_ regarding this,' he waved a hand, 'propaganda undertaking.'  
>  I was starting to wonder if the higher-ups called it an Undertaking because it was going to be the death of me.

To write is such supreme employment!  
It's work, it's torture, it's enjoyment,  
It tests the utmost of one's powers—  
Two-dozen words can take _two hours._  
But tired of writing for applause,  
I fell to writing just because;  
For wisdom (I need hardly mention!)  
Is gained by saying "Fuck attention!"

Thus, I present in dubious grandeur  
This offering of memoranda,  
Each line an earnest heart's confession  
Delivered lacking _all_ discretion.  
Some readers may believe I joke,  
That these aren't words we really spoke,  
And these aren't trials we muddled through—  
For if they _were_ , well, why tell _you?_

I'll tell you why, when I find out.  
But know, if there's the slightest doubt,  
If something strikes you as invention—  
Scenes manufactured just for tension—  
Then just assume they are. That's fine.  
You can't fool people _all_ the time.

                        —V.T. 9:47 Dragon

 

As luck may have it, I'd recently re-stuffed my mattress with the finest straw Skyhold could offer. Or rather, the second-finest; the best went to the Inquisitor's horse-beast. Scaly monstrosities aside, I'd had plenty of well-deserved, lump-free sleep the night before—and it was too close on the heels of breakfast for the hard stuff—so my judgment was as unimpaired as it ever is. If you can call anybody involved in this sack of wet cats _of sound mind_ , I was among the soundest.

So when the commander asked me if I could do a sketch of him for his nephew, and could I please make him look hale and healthy and not bowed low with the myriad burdens of the apocalypse, I responded as rationally as could be expected.

'What?'

I mean, sure, he wasn't exactly the Arrow Collar man. He had a massive scar on his face and looked like he hadn't slept in a week, but then again that could describe most people I know, myself included. But I couldn't for the life of me understand why he'd want to send his family what some might call a _Chantry-approved_ rendition of his appearance. After all, the guy didn't work for the Chantry anymore, why gloss over the really interesting parts in favor of pious uniformity, you know what I'm saying?

Cullen looked like he regretted having asked me anything beyond the time of day, which is a look I relish on the faces of authority figures, particularly the variety who went in for—or _used_ to go in for—a little blue punch in the elbow.

But that sort of person also knows how to take the rough with the smooth, and he soldiered on regardless. 'Dorian mentioned that you draw. A bit.'

I could only imagine what sort of conversation _that_ had been. What pages had I shown Dorian, anyway? Stupid question—it came down to which ones I'd known he'd appreciate. A wise man does not fling his creations willy-nilly, hoping somebody _somewhere_ will take a shine to them; you have to choose your audience carefully or risk getting the raspberry from all sides, and having to pull up stakes and retire early to escape the shame.

What would Dorian like the look of, being a former rich kid who's got an eye for art, being (as he was) from Up Yonder with all their grand and mostly-stolen cultural history? They put those little floppy ferns on everything, up there, you know. Acanthus, I think they're called. Sucks all the fun out of the thing. You can barely get a decent view of the dangles. So while I knew Dorian had an eye for art, I knew he had more of an eye for unadorned arses, so that's what I'd shown him, without any floppy ferns getting in the way.

On paper, I mean to say. I didn't flash him.

What some regard as highbrow, others regard as utter filth. Dorian happened to appreciate both, and that's a quality I look for in people.

'I do draw, yes,' I said, since that conversation was still going on without narrative in-between. 'A bit. _Mostly_ bits.' I paused, waiting for realization to dawn. Cullen gave me a blank, expectant look, and I tried to clear it up for him. 'The dirty bits, Curly. I could even go so far as to say the _curly_ bits.'

His posture changed in gradual stages, like a mail-order wince on the installment plan. 'Ah.' Master of understatement, this guy. Saves up his oratory powers all year and then whips 'em out only when he's got about five hundred mismatched suits of armor in front of him, in the rain. It’s people like that who make it into the history books, mostly because no one knows where else to put them.

'But, I mean,' I said, because I was taught at my mama's knee to be kind, 'they've got people attached. It's not just floating dicks.'

'I'm delighted to hear it,' he said, lying.

'Delighted to see it?' I suggested, smirking. I do enjoy ribbing him, poor guy, and in fairness he was one of the only red-blooded people in the place who hadn't yet asked about my, ahem, _portfolio._ Dorian was about as good at keeping secrets as a sieve was good at holding water.

'I said nothing of the sort.'

'Might do you some good.'

'I hardly see what good _that_ would do me.' Clearly he had Opinions about this sort of thing.

'And that,' I said with a sigh, 'is exactly why you'd benefit most.' I returned to the primary issue at hand. 'It's not all smutty, you know. I do the stuff for my books.' He must have seen a copy of one sometime recently, they were all over the damn place. 'I send the sketches to the Engravers' Guild for the chapter plates, you know, the full-page doodle that's got a fancy header at the top like a notice, "Donnen Surveys Ye Cadaver"?'

'I'd rather not be immortalized while Surveying a Cadaver.'

I chuckled. 'Who said anything about immortalized? Your nephew a budding End Times historian, or do you just assume my work is that good? Dorian must have had a lot to say about those butts.'

I skimmed over the hyper-religious possibility that he might actually believe that being depicted while living somehow anchors a chunk of your soul from its intended departure. I mean, everyone knew the commander was a dyed-in-the-wool altar boy, but it was another thing to just accept that a battle-gouged former Templar might be afraid of something like that. Fereldans had weird superstitions, though, so practically _anything_ was possible. They have a lot of dreams, down South, and eat a lot of cheese. Either of those factors might interfere with one's core beliefs, but both was just asking for trouble.

'No corpses,' said Cullen wearily.

'Your nephew might enjoy the gross-out factor. Young boys often do.'

'He really wouldn't.'

I recalled my own youth in Kirkwall. 'Never even been to a hanging, has he.' Not that I'd enjoyed them—it was a Rite of Passage sort of thing.

Cullen glared. 'No! He lives in wholesome obscurity, far from the evils of the current state of the world.'

'Means he'll probably sneak off to see one any day now,' I pointed out. 'Kid's'll be kids. Anyway, why do you want him to think you look like the guy on a bottle of armor polish? Odds are he'd be happier to know what you really look like.'

'I'd prefer to be remembered as better than this,' said Cullen, dragging a hand through his squiggled hair. 'Cleaner, at any rate.'

'So take a bath. I'll wait.'

He shot me a look. Clearly not even the hottest bath could scour off what he wanted to omit.

'All right, all right,' I conceded, 'I'll tidy you up a little, if it makes you happy. But don't come crying to me when you see your nephew next and he takes one look at your face and assumes you've been in a laundry mangle accident.'

* * *

I sat at my desk with no idea how to proceed.

I got the basics down, at any rate. Preparation is my middle name! Varric Preparation Tethras, it’s right there on the Turn-of-the-Age census, if you ever want to check. Named after Whole Opium Preparation of Laudanum, a dear old friend of my parents.

What with all the pencils sharpened, the inkwell clean and full, nib in its holder, each corner of the mass of paper weighed down so it didn't curl up, I had one of the most prepared-looking desks this side of the border. Perhaps not the _tidiest_ —that honor belongs to Ruffles—but tidy doesn't always equal _ready_ , in my experience. But I was so ready. At any moment my hand would dart across the page and an image would be revealed.

Yep.

Any moment now.

I sharpened a pencil for the third time, making sure the point was perfect from all angles.

How would Curly want to be remembered? Other than 'clean' and the vague suggestion of 'better', I hadn't been given much to work with. Not that he was uninteresting to look at—there was certainly a wealth of detail: That hair, obviously. His weird feathered collar (who told him that was a good move? Is it just a Formerly-Of-Kinloch-Hold thing? Blondie had had one, too). The long-healed gashes here and there, the occasional pockmark of adolescence gone by, the scruff. Ink under his nails, bruises under his eyes. I could draw him all day and never get the whole picture.

But clean that all up and what did it leave you? An older, slightly more wrung-out Knight-Captain Frownline who kept in fighting shape by wrestling his conscience ten hours out of the day. Now, to be fair, he'd come to terms with his opponent of late, or at least subdued it with a big enough brick, but by and large Cullen Rutherford was still a man torn between what's right and what he'd been taught. He had a little Templar on one shoulder telling him to maintain the status quo, that he had all the evidence he needed to punch downwards with an iron fist until it drew back messy and red, and on the other shoulder was a friendly little Fereldan anarchist to remind him that the world is a shithole with stupid rules, and that nearly everyone in authority is majorly wrong about a key element of their approach. If you know anything about me, you know that I tend to root for the second guy—to a _point!_ I draw the line at explosives—but in my opinion, Cullen was who he was primarily due to the combination of the rigid holy soldier aspect and its hell-raising counterpart.

I'd watched him change, in fits and starts. I'd been present for the bigger parts of that transformation, and still more were unfolding all the time. Mostly on the inside, obviously. He wasn’t out in the courtyard doing a musical number about how he was undergoing some heavy character development. But if you’re as accustomed to watching people as I am, you see the signs.

I knew that without defiance, he wouldn't have been able to turn away from the Order when it went off a cliff into crazy territory; but conversely, without intensely moral decision-making and a genuine desire to protect people from harm, that same defiance could have led to things worse than what Meredith had been condoning before she found herself fused to the ground, glowing red and making roast-potato noises.

Can you convey on paper that you're proud of someone for overcoming the oppressive dogma they'd been fed in their youth? Maybe (I thought in my idleness) if I was self-important enough to (Maker forbid) write an honest memoir, sure, but you can't _draw_ shit like that. When a friend or acquaintance or dubiously stable military expert asks you to draw them, they don't want the _truth_ , they want something that makes them look good. Even if the unbiased version looks pretty good, already.

But why was I even wondering about this? I realized that through my mental wanderings I was in possession of several fewer inches of pencil than I'd had before. I put my knife down. Then, as an afterthought, I put it in a drawer.

This was stupid. What would a kid like to see? A Fereldan kid, specifically.

A few minutes later I had a decent-sized sketch of a fiercely determined Cullen with his sword pointed at the viewer, as if rallying his troops to charge right out of the page. Around him were all races of people in motley armor, cohorts all gleaming et cetera, bearing Inquisition banners, a pack of Mabari leaping and rolling around at their feet. As a bonus there were some unfurling clouds and a vaguely Andraste-shaped heavenly onlooker giving a double thumbs-up.

 _That's_ the kind of thing a kid would tack to his wall for morale. Even though we didn't actually have any dogs.

* * *

At this point in the story it's important to make note of a couple of things that had been going on in the background, namely:

  1. My publisher was, unbeknownst to me, making a fat sack of coin by lying to me about my Orlesian sales numbers. I'd soon find out, and get pretty fed up about it, and people would get fired, leaving me with a feeling of righteous vindication but also without a publishing contract. There was also some bullshit about an old acquaintance putting out an unauthorized and frankly terrible sequel to _Hard in Hightown,_ the terribleness of which (and how readily some readers accepted it as canon, which was the worst part) made me wonder whether I should try my hand at writing something other than action-packed guardsmen murder mysteries for a while.
  2. People from all over had been making the long jaunt to Skyhold, since I guess people have to pilgrimage some damn place now that Haven is no longer on the map. We'd also been recruiting a lot of miscellaneous townsfolk, rebels, farmers and tradesmen, who then got it into their heads to recruit their own friends, relatives, hairdressers, drug suppliers, etc. This meant that Skyhold was bustling even during the lag between fresh contingents of visiting nobles. People slept ten to a room, on some corridors, and those were the ones _without_ bunk beds. With that many people there comes a reality of wartime that everybody forgets about until it's kicking an inflated bladder around underfoot when you're trying to plan a siege: Kids.
  3. Kids—not unlike apostates—need something structured to do, or they'll start trash fires and kill each other with sticks.
  4. An associate of mine in the newly-rebuilt Denerim had just been assassinated, as was no doubt entirely called-for given the circumstances, and I received a letter from her solicitor detailing how many worldly possessions she'd decided to make me find space in the bottom of the wardrobe for.
  5. I'd been bashed up pretty badly by some kind of gangly demonic shitlord on my last outing with the Inquisitor—such things are inevitable when you have those sorts of friends—so I was resting up at HQ while bones glued themselves back together and punctures did whatever they do to sort themselves out.
  6. I'd been stuck for ideas for my next book (see Item 1), wasting a lot of paper on plots that went nowhere, filling space with unnecessary beheadings, so I figured I should set it aside and occupy myself with something else until an idea actually showed up. Little did I know that so many things would fall into my lap at once.



I realize in retrospect that it's a lot more complicated than I remembered.

* * *

Skyhold is one of those moldering old heaps full to capacity with blind corners and weird courtyards, designed more to withstand invasion than to be hospitable. Now, I don't like there being any bolt-holes I don't know about, so I made it a point to take a different route every time I went somewhere in the castle, adding it to the increasingly squiggly map I'd been drawing on the flyleaf of my pocket notebook. This sometimes meant being an hour late for dinner because I'd ended up in a creepy passageway or nearly strolled off the side of the mountain through a collapsed floor.

On this particular morning I'd taken a long way around to get to Cullen's office. Not a typical pre-breakfast activity, but the fastest messengers got sent out first thing, and I thought it might do me some favors to get that portrait off to his nephew sooner rather than later. Early rising rarely hurt anybody for more than an hour or so, and thus it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. And honestly? The sun was shining, birdsong mingled with the _ting_ of metal against metal from the armory up the hill, and I was kind of proud of my drawing.

As I passed by the stables again (what, you expected me to not even get a cup of coffee on the way over? The kitchen is _right there_ ), an idea dropped into place.

'Quick question,' I said, hoving alongside where the horsemaster was messing about with some sort of leather thing. Horses have 'tack', right? I think it's tack—certainly not _tact_ , most horses I've met have no qualms about introducing potent smells into even the most serious conversations.

'Is it also a short question?' Dennet said in his deadpan way, then winked. 'Kidding. You're actually tall for a dwarf, aren't you?'

'That'd be the secret inserts in my boots.' I watched as he slung a saddle up onto a stand and began repairing places where the sinew was wearing out. 'If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you. So hey, why don't we have war dogs?'

He huffed. 'Search me. Maybe you should ask another of your lot.'

'I don't mean why don't _dwarves_ have dogs. That's obvious.'

'Is it?'

'We think highly enough of ourselves as it is. You ever seen how a dog looks at you?'

Dennet gave me a look, himself, though not of what could be called the canine attitude. 'I'm Fereldan, I've known more dogs than people.'

I hopped up onto the edge of a crate and sat. 'So what gives? Seems like half our guys would volunteer to floss a dragon's back teeth if it meant they could get a Mabari on our side.'

'Look,' said Dennet, pausing to pull a knot tight with his own teeth, 'most people don't like to think about this, but a whole load of the best breeding stock got wiped out during the Blight. Where do you want your strongest, smartest, most tenacious Mabari?'

I nodded. 'At the front lines.'

'And the ones who weren't, well. There's a handful of diseases they can get when they're young, or their feed wasn't good as it should be. Lot of 'em died from despair, as well. Very attuned to their people, Mabari.'

I remembered how Hawke's dog had acted when most of our friends had gone off to do their own thing. I didn't want to think too hard about the kind of misery you'd see in a dog whose entire country was falling down around its ears. Hawke's Mabari was goofy in the way all dogs are, but keen minds came with the breed as much as giant shoulders did. The smarter you are, the more you can hurt.

'So where are the rest of them?' I asked.

Dennet shrugged. 'Who's thriving these days? Bandits, highwaymen. It's not unheard of that in lean times people will turn to unscrupulous work to keep their dogs fed. Sort of a given, with how important they are to us. Redcliffe's own breeder turned to banditry, herself, and she's made a killing.'

'I assume quite literally.'

That got a sharp, two-note laugh. 'With a pack of the finest hounds in Thedas at her behest? Trail of corpses. Damn shame.'

'And you can't, uh. _Steal_ them. Can you?'

Dennet's genuine laugh was much kinder on the ears than the cynical one. 'It'd be easier to steal the Maker's nose off his face.'

I blew out a sigh. 'Great, now I'm probably going to make a kid sad. Back to the drawing board.'

Dennet had been replacing some sort of brass whatsit but stopped, lowering his pliers. 'You didn't do something like _promise a child a Mabari_.'

'What? No! Here, look.' I took the drawing out and unrolled it for him to see. 'It's for Cullen's nephew. I figured it might lift the little guy's spirits, but if there's some kind of Mabari shortage—'

'You _drew_ this?'

'With my hands.'

'Looks like a ruddy engraving!'

'Somebody has to think up the picture before it gets carved into an engraver's plate.'

Dennet handed the drawing back and I rolled it up again. 'Not half bad.'

'I aim for only a _third_ bad, less if I can manage it.'

'Would've taken that round to show the whole village, when I was a kid.'

'Huh.' I got down from the crate. 'Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess. You sure we can't steal a Mabari?'

Dennet shook his head. 'Can't just realign its devotion with a quick pat and a rasher of bacon. Acquiring one out of a solid bond's rarer than a topless Chantry sister. Something has to have gone _very_ wrong on their master’s end.'

'Damn, and here I thought I could get by on charm. I'll let you get back to work.'

I conveniently forgot the mug of coffee, in thanks.

* * *

Cullen just stared at it.

'I mean,' I went on, 'I figured it'd be good to give him a nice, optimistic view of the Inquisition.'

'Right,' said Cullen.

'You said no corpses.'

'Right.'

'And I figured that randy scouts were out of the question, as well. At least until he's a bit older.'

'Right.'

I was starting to tense up a little, waiting for the no doubt scathing critique I was about to be slapped with. So I did what I always do when I'm nervous: I made shit up.

'It's actually based on the composition of a famous sculpture in Orzammar. _The Paragon Edwid Thighbiter's Charge on the Casteless Uprising._ ' I rocked back on my heels a bit. 'Not that I've seen the original, obviously. Art like _that_ isn't allowed to see the light of day. But it shows up in the form of pastiche all over the place in surfacer stuff. Just a, you know, a little in-joke in there. Kid might appreciate it when he's grown.'

Cullen briefly glanced up at me and then back down at the cartoon. 'Never heard of it, myself.'

'You don't know a lot of dwarves. Trust me, this is like top-quality satire right here. There's a drinking song about it with synchronized quaffing.'

Cullen finally looked at me properly, a slight frown creasing his brow. 'Thighbiter, was it?'

'A blisteringly effective military leader, so they say.'

'Well.' He seemed to let it go for the time being. 'It really is quite good. Thank you, Varric.'

'Anything for you, Curly.'

'It's far more detailed than I'd anticipated.'

He wasn't the only one. 'No trouble at all.'

Cullen ran a finger along the length of his sword in the drawing. 'And thank you for, ah. Cleaning me up.'

'Wasn't that difficult.' I smiled. 'Maybe _you_ should keep it, since you like it so much.'

'I couldn't possibly!' He rolled up the paper and began tucking it into the leather scroll tube with the letter he'd written.

'Suit yourself. I'm off—left my coffee somewhere.' Never forget to write yourself an exit route, I always say. I turned to go, mostly to hide how pleased I was at how pleased _he_ was.

'Varric—'

I turned back. 'Yeees?'

Cullen was trying to tamp down a smile. 'Thighbiter? Really?'

I waved a hand. 'Very old family. Very serious.'

'I see.'

'It's standing room only for Thighbiters in Orzammar.'

'I shall have to take your word for it.'

'You can't swing an axe without hitting one.'

'First name Edward, you said?'

'Ed _wid_. Acutely traditional.'

'No doubt.' He hid his mouth behind his hand. 'Well, off you go. Thank you again.'

I left, chuckling to myself on the way down the stairs.

* * *

_My most esteemed Mr Tethras—_

_What follows is an itemized inventory of the property which has been bequeathed to you upon the unfortunate passing of one Deara Pandle (may she rest in the Maker's arms) of Denerim._

_Please reply at your leisure regarding instructions for the delivery & dispersal of these goods._

_I remain your humble servant, &c._

_Best regards,_

_Jos. W. Havior, Solicitor_

_28 C Market Corner_

_New Denerim NE 6_

❧ One (1) Black-lacquered Orlesian upright harpsichordette, tuned

❧ Three (3) Silk handkerchiefs, plum-colored

❧ One (1) Bone tea set with silver rims, service for six

❧ Forty-seven (47) Bottles Antivan wine, assorted vintage and provenance

❧ One (1) Songbird cage fashioned in the shape of a lute, the back of which depicts a Tevinter villa in springtime

❧ Two (2) Tortoiseshell combs

❧ Twelve (12) Personal journals, magically sealed

❧ Ten (10) Bundles personal correspondence, ditto

❧ One (1) Mechanical engraving press

❧ One (1) Mechanical letter press

❧ Two (2) Novelty copper phalloi with warmer

❧ One (1) Tin Rivaini "Master Disaster's Unbeatable Unique Flying Salve", opened

❧ Four (4) Books of prayers

❧ Five (5) Books of erotic verse

❧ One (1) Engraving of "Antivan Bathers"

❧ Six (6) Fine pen nibs, silver, flexible

❧ One (1) Bottle Orlesian parfum, "Tigre"

❧ One (1) ditto, "Petit Mort"

❧ Two (2) Crates No. 1 white candles

❧ Eight (8) Crates No. 3 yellow ditto

❧ Four (4) Bottles Tevinter pressed olive oil

❧ One (1) Child's(?) drawing of Kirkwall guardsman

❧ One (1) Carved obsidian charm, Andraste in Repose

❧ Six (6) Pairs of earrings, gold

❧ One (1) Gentleman's personal ring, gold

❧ One (1) Deed to Orlesian vineyard

❧ One (1) Share in racehorse "Exceeds Expectations"

❧ One (1) Small file box whores' business cards, assorted and notated

❧ One (1) "Kick in the Pants"

* * *

I tend to conduct my affairs in such a way as to try to avoid being summoned to the offices of Important People. If you’ve ever been in the office of an Important Person, yourself, you know that nothing good ever happens there. Every time I find myself standing on one side of a desk while somebody who's still taller than me even while seated steeples their fingers and inquires politely what the fuck do I think I'm playing at, I feel like an errant servant being told off for spitting. Despite the charges in question usually being something more like "aiding and abetting dangerous fugitives", the look they give you is the same no matter _what_ you did.

That said, it’s understandable that I wasn't wholly unconcerned when I got called to Lady Montilyet's lair. As lairs go, Ruffles landed one of the best: decent light, swanky chair, and a desk big enough to merit its own postal code.

Not that they had that sort of thing on the side of a mountain. Organized delivery maps were mostly a Marcher thing; as of press date, Orlais still thinks it’s gauche, and 'New' Denerim was the only city in Ferelden to make an attempt, as you may have noticed in the previous epistolary segment included in this book. As far as I'm aware, success has been mixed, mostly due to the sort of person who sees a good thing and can't resist stirring the pot. (You know the sort of person I mean. Orlesians.) A lot of important folks out Denerim way get mail from Orlais, and Orlais likes its traditions. If you can't slap a mask on it or smother it in gold leaf, you have to make up some damned thing to make it stand out as being yours-in-particular. Some might call that a rich cultural heritage, or something like that, but it's mostly just the "rich" part. On any well-to-do scroll hailing from the westerly regions you're more likely to find instructions for what names to drop when you ask for directions, rather than the name of a street and a couple of numbers. Once I got a letter from Val Firmin addressed "To Messr V. Tethras, Author, Whose Reputation makes known Where, Precisely, He Resides." Took seven months to reach me.

Understandably, debt collectors are more direct, sometimes even specifying down to the preferred epithet what manner of vile abuse is to be hurled at you from the street by the courier.

But I digress.

'Ah, Varric.' Josephine didn't look _harried_ , because she rarely did, but she was less put-together than one typically saw her, which meant she’d been up to her eyebrows in the unreasonable demands of the social elite. There was ink on her fingers—a familiar woe of my own, happens when you pull the cork from one of the big bottles to refill your inkwells, and honestly it struck me as odd that the Lady Ambassador didn't have an aide who did that sort of thing for her—and a lock of hair had come untucked from behind her ear. 'I was just speaking to the Inquisitor, who agrees with me that the current climate might be improved by the application of... certain materials.'

People who know me can tell you that I'm unflinchingly direct about my views of _the climate_ , namely: It's awful. Any climate. _All_ climates, meteorological or socioeconomic.

'I vote for plaidweave,' I said. 'Good for a laugh, on the right person. There's this surcoat Solas picked up that makes him look like a Rivaini street jester. I suggested sewing bells on it, but he didn't seem to think that would suit him. Can’t imagine why not.'

Josephine hid a very undiplomatic sort of snicker, likely in a drawer so she could take it out later when no one was looking. ' _Political_ materials.'

'Fancy heraldic stuff, you mean? The squiggly eyeball doesn't exactly inspire your average Joe Ferelden.'

'Propaganda,' she corrected me. 'I have been informed that you could provide us with artwork that _would_ inspire,' she paused, raising a brow, '"Joe Ferelden", as well as...' That little noise threatened to pop out of its drawer, but she subdued it, '"Jean-Claude Orlais."'

I sucked my teeth for a moment, eyes narrowed. 'Who's been telling stories on me, Ruffles? That's _my_ job. I'm the only one allowed to incriminate me.'

'It's hardly incriminating to have one's artistic ability praised.'

'Depends on which drawings got mentioned.' A few I'd shown Dorian were illegal in several city-states.

'As for who's been telling stories,' Josephine went on, 'I believe it was Master Dennet, who told one of the gentlemen who works the forge, who told The Iron Bull, who told his lieutenant, who told me.'

'Huh. You and Krem hang out much?'

Josephine looked down, busily shuffling papers into order. 'He's a terrible flirt,' she said.

'Terrible as in "please pay for some lessons" or terrible as in " _ooh_ , Lieutenant Aclassi, you're a bad man"?' I waggled my fingers.

Josephine's cheeks and nose had gone pink. 'That's beside the point.' She cleared her throat. 'The point is that we find ourselves in need of some emotionally potent material to garner positive feelings about the Inquisition, and you seem to be more than capable of producing it.'

'Awfully busy with adventuring,' I hedged.

'Not for another four weeks,' Josephine countered. 'I spoke to the healers about your fracture. No vigorous activity until a month has elapsed.'

Damn. 'All right, so I have the time.'

'I know that this would not be an effortless undertaking,' Josephine assured me. 'The difference between a dabbler and an artist is the _work_ part of artwork.' She gave me a weary look. 'Trust me, as the sister of an extremely work-averse dabbler. However, you _would_ be compensated for your efforts, and all necessary supplies would be provided.'

I toyed with a little decorative whatsit on the mantelpiece, a ceramic dog with a goofy, honest look on its face. Maybe somebody ought to get one for Curly. 'So you're saying I'd get paid to draw Inquisition people looking all shiny.'

She nodded. 'Winning battles against terrifying demons, doing good works, sealing the Breach. So that people will be better able to picture what it is this institution is about. Perhaps—since this is _also_ your area of expertise—you might write captions. Or,' and she seemed more enthusiastic about this suggestion, 'little stories, relaying acts of daring and heroism?'

'Ah, shucks, you just want something fun to read.'

'And so would the people we're trying to convince.'

I gave it about three seconds of thought.

'I'll take that and raise it. Let me tell you about a very interesting letter I just received...'

* * *

Carts piled high with goods stood in the courtyard like guests waiting to be seated. I'd passed out coin to a gaggle of kids, two of whom knew how to read, and they'd begun prying open boxes and checking things off on the inventory. One cart, which had needed a brace of burly horses to pull it, bore the presses.

I whipped off the waxed tarps that had covered them. 'Ta da!'

'Where do you intend to put them?' said Cullen, who was among those gathered to get an eyeful.

'Seriously? There's tons of space around here if you know where to look.' That spooky underground feasting hall could fit about fifty of them and you'd still have room to invite a couple of brontos over for a sociable afternoon.

The Inquisitor was up on the carts with the kids, helping lift things down, but stopped for a moment to call over at me, 'You going to announce it or what?'

'Hmm, maybe you should do it.'

That got me an eye-rolling. 'I _always_ have to do the talking, come on.'

'All right, all right.'

I climbed up into the driver's seat of the cart, then whistled with two fingers to get everyone's attention.

'Today marks a new chapter for this illustrious mess we call the Inquisition,' I said. 'What you see here are typeset and engravers' presses. We're going to use them to get the word out, trounce doubters, get the fickle off the fence and generally encourage the crap out of the people of Thedas.'

'How so?' the Inquisitor prompted, shouting cheerfully through cupped hands.

'By making something called a _broadsheet_. Anybody know what that is?'

'Linens what go on a lady's bed!' hollered some wag at the back of the crowd.

'Wrong! But I appreciate the wordplay.'

'It's a big message!' said a kid who, by the looks of her haircut, had lived in a city before coming to Skyhold. 'It's got all manner of columns of writin' on it an' that.'

'Exactly! Someone give this child a candied pear. What's your name?'

'Ditta, ser!'

'One pear...' I said, miming writing a memo on my palm, 'for... Ditta.' The kid in question giggled.

Scout Harding was scrutinizing the presses with her arms crossed. 'Why would you need a printing press for a message? We're pretty good at communicating in the usual ways, even for long ones.'

'Ah, but we want as many people as possible to get the _same_ message. We want to stick it under people's doors, hand it out in taverns, tack it to Chanters' boards. Printing saves a lot of people a lot of writers' cramp.'

'So why not just make it a book?' someone asked.

'A broadsheet's simpler,' I said. 'For one thing, you don't have to cut the pages and sew it together, and no leather will go to waste for the covers. All we have to do is format the sheet so you know how to differentiate between sections. Another bonus is that a broadsheet's _like_ a book, only disposable.'

'Why would anyone want to throw away a book?' said Cassandra, which was funny to me because in my experience she played a little fast and loose with the sanctity of the printed word.

'Blasphemy,' Blackwall suggested.

'Suspicious stains,' said one of the Chargers.

'Second person present tense,' said Bull.

'If it's disposable and everyone knows it,' said the Inquisitor, 'then we're not only providing information, we're giving them something tangible and _useful_ —kindling, something to wrap parcels of food—'

'Bog wad,' Sera added with a snort.

'Or, as you so wisely noted, bog wad,' I said. 'I think it's safe to say that in these troubling times, people are a lot more grateful for the little things in life than for a fancy book. A book's always a book, but paper can be anything you need it for.'

The wag at the back stuck his oar in for a second time. 'You saying people should wipe their arses with the Inquisition?' There was scattered laughter.

'I mean, they can if they have to, but they may clip out the interesting bits before applying to any... interesting bits.' I shrugged. 'Anyway, having our own _publication_ gives us an air of authority, and shows we're on the cutting edge. Can you believe that most places still pay a guy to shout the news? It's the Ninth Age! Why not print the thing and have people pay _us_ for the privilege of shouting at each other about it?'

'I thought you wanted to stick it under doors,' said Cassandra.

'For people who don't get told things,' I said. 'If you get all your news from the girl who brings the milk every morning, you're at a disadvantage. We don't want to leave out people like that, because we're _for_ the people. But it's not like nobles go down to the pub like regular citizens—they _pay_ to stay in the loop, one way or another. Now, would nobles prefer hearsay, or hearing our stance straight from the weird, scaly horse's mouth?'

The Inquisitor chucked a handful of packing straw at me. 'Shut up about my horse!'

'I will never shut up about your horse,' I said. 'I will continue voicing concerns about your horse until I'm in my urn.' The Inquisitor made a good-natured fingery gesture, and I made one back. 'At present, however, I'm tired of shouting. I don't know how you do this all day, Curly.'

Cullen shrugged. 'To be honest, most of my time is spent silently in my office, reading things.'

I shook my head. 'What a way to live. No wonder a twelve-minute speech pops out any time they stick you in front of people.'

Much of the crowd was starting to break off into little groups, discussing these new developments, going back to their tasks or off for a drink since they'd been interrupted anyway.

'So,' said The Iron Bull, leaning up against the side of the cart and crossing his ankles, 'are you going to be doing all the writing for this, yourself? Hanging up the crossbow?'

'Shit, no. Some of it, yeah, and I'll be doing the drawings to be engraved. Not much else to do while I'm on bones-gluing-together leave, right? But we have loads of people here who'd be grateful for the chance to tell their own stories and help out the cause.'

Solas had joined the group at some point and drifted over to us. 'I have a thought, Master Tethras.'

'Lay it on me, slim.' (I do enjoy the look on his face when I talk like that.)

'This might be a twofold opportunity,' Solas pointed out. 'As you are no doubt aware, the influx of young people occupying the fortress of late has presented some... interesting challenges.'

We all took a moment to collectively recall the incident where Egon Herring From Markham (12) had dangled Be-Thankful Sweetwater The Chantry Orphan (9) off of the rotunda scaffolding by her ankles. And the time Mads Sorensson (7) chucked practice throwing-axes up into Vivienne's loft, ruining a priceless late-Xavierian six-legged armchair with clawed feet. And the time Algar The Superfluous Dalish Mage (10 1/2) had accidentally set fire to his own hat because he was balancing it on the end of his staff, balancing his staff on the palm of his hand, walking down the stairs to the Great Hall with his eyes closed. And especially the time when Be-Thankful Sweetwater The Chantry Orphan laid a spike trap for Egon Herring From Markham to trip over.

'They are underfoot, you mean,' said Cassandra.

Solas conceded that. 'I have found myself in a position to tutor a few of the elven children, when the time is available, but—'

'Really?' said the Inquisitor. I knew that there had been some frustration, there, about Solas' earlier refusal to instruct anybody in what Sera would call "Elfy Stuff", much less anything else. 'That's... kind of you, Solas.'

Solas' expression was that unique blend of self-satisfied and uncomfortable that he tended to wear whenever he and the Herald interacted. ' _Well._ It seemed a pity that children with little to do could be surrounded by books but lack the ability to read. Dorian has also been assisting them, I believe.'

I had a mental picture of Sparkler surrounded by elf kids, teaching them how to talk back in Tevene. 'Getting a well-rounded education, then. Anybody minding the tiny humans and dwarves?'

'Other than Dorian? Pretty sure that's you,' said Bull. 'I barely see you around here without some squirt trailing after you.'

'Oh, you mean my spy network?'

Cullen, who had been peering curiously into one of the presses, turned and gave me a subtly dangerous look. 'You're not serious.'

'You're right, I'm not.' I glanced back at Solas, and thankfully he rescued me.

'Perhaps instructing the children in how to operate the presses—with supervision—might assist in the development of literacy, and skills for later in life as they seek a trade.'

'Sounds good to me. Not everybody's cut out to be a cook or a smith or a chandler,' I said. 'And maybe one of them could give a kid's perspective on the Inquisition, to show people we're here for everybody.'

'An admirable approach,' said Cullen, then, 'Varric, if you've got a moment to spare, might I speak to you in my office?'

'Uh, sure.' I turned to the crate-openers, who had been listening intently to the conversation so far but went back to Looking Very Busy now that someone was watching them. 'Don't open any bundles of papers while I'm gone, got it? Some of them are cursed. And for Andraste's sake don't even _think_ about touching the tin of Flying Salve, I'll never hear the end of it.'

'I'll supervise the operation,' said the Inquisitor, mock-seriously. 'And I promise not to steal anything.'

'Riiight.' I caught the eye of one of the inventory-readers and jerked my chin in the Inquisitor's direction. 'Keep an eye on this one, would you? We've got a notorious looter on our hands,' I teased. 'Triple check the manifest.'

With that, I went off up the stairs to the battlements after the commander.

* * *

I turned a chair around and straddled it. Cullen was looking out of one of the arrow slits that passed for windows, hands clasped behind his back. I had a fleeting thought that he was probably built pretty solidly under all the layers—the man hung more curtains off himself than a queen's canopy bed.

'Are you going to tell me what I'm in trouble about, or am I just supposed to look at the back of your head for a while?'

'Hmm? Oh.' Cullen turned around. 'My apologies.'

'No problem. Lots of people invite me places just to sit around and be decorative.'

He looked abashed and got to his point. 'Our ambassador has informed me that my assistance would be... _appreciated_ , regarding this,' he waved a hand, 'propaganda undertaking.'

I was starting to wonder if the higher-ups called it an Undertaking because it was going to be the death of me.

'You say "appreciated" like it comes with red-hot iron boots,' I said. 'What's so bad about it?'

'I think I'm entitled to a certain amount of discomfort when I've been elected to the position of some sort of _poster boy_.' He turned away, clearly rankled.

'I like the sound of that, though.' I drew an arc in the air. 'Commander Cullen Rutherford, Inquisition Pin-up! How big do you think we could print them?'

I can't help saying stuff like that, you know. All right, I'm sure I _could_ , but I'd be far less scintillating company. A guy's gotta make his own fun.

Cullen's ears were a bit red. 'That's not what Lady Montilyet intended, I assure you.'

'Is that so? She's Antivan and did Orlesian court stuff. They're _all_ about smutty engravings.' I contemplated mentioning that I'd just been bequeathed one by my recently-assassinated associate, but Cullen was bound to hear about it sooner or later, considering that six or seven nosy little squirts and the Inquisitor were rooting through the crates down in the courtyard. On the whole, _Antivan Bathers_ was a classic, as good an introduction to that sort of thing as any, and it could get some of the lads interested in, uh. Specialty plumbing. Might as well embrace this whole "introducing them to new and educational trades" thing, right?

The commander rested his knuckles on the desktop and leaned forward over them, like a slow-motion punch. 'The entire purpose of this endeavor is to endear ourselves to naysayers and encourage the common man. I hardly think that,' I could hear the quotation marks thudding down on either side, ' _"pin-ups"_ of a haggard former Templar is the way to do that.'

I snorted. 'First of all, Curly, you and I seem to have a _vastly_ different understanding of what appeals to the common man. The commoner the better, I say.'

'You would.'

'I'm going to pretend not to have heard that.' I rolled my eyes. 'Secondly— _haggard?_ Really?'

Cullen frowned slightly more than he had been, but more out of confusion than consternation. 'Do you take issue with the word?'

'No, just...' Well, yeah, I did take issue with him calling himself that, but it didn't seem like the time to discuss that particular matter. 'Never mind. How _did_ Ruffles want you to help, then?'

'Lady Montilyet's approach certainly has merit. The Inquisitor is already being put on a pedestal far too much—almost to the point of idolatry, with some of our people—and Josephine believes presenting additional figures for public attention might draw some of the pressure away from the Herald. But I struggle to accept the idea that _I'm_ meant to be one of them.' He sighed, his patience with the subject clearly on the thin side. 'Beyond that, I've been told you'll be composing adventure stories and such. Recounting recent battles.'

'Something like that.'

'It would do well to have them described properly.'

I laughed. 'Aha, the truth comes out! You know, people's usual complaint is that I'm _too_ descriptive.'

To my surprise, Cullen went over to his bookshelf, selected a familiar volume and flipped it open at random, reading out a passage. I knew it well.

_'Javier ducked aside, but not far enough, bracing himself under the onslaught as a blow glanced off him. But then he felt the bandit's blade connect with and rend the flesh of his arm; the sting of it set his ears to roaring, and phantom-white spots popped in his vision.'_

Cullen looked at me over the top of the book.

'And?' I said.

'He uses that arm perfectly well for the rest of the skirmish, and indeed for the rest of the chapter.'

'I don't know how much of a fiction reader you are, but most people read fight scenes for, you know, the _fight_ part.'

'It lacks realism.'

I never knew the guy had such an editorial streak. 'It's not an anatomical treatise on the treatment of protagonist's arms in sickness and health.'

'He _never_ seeks proper attention from a healer.'

'Wrong. He does in chapter fourteen.'

'Nearly ten days later! And even then, only because the healer is an attractive woman Javier wants to impress,' he countered, 'who can't seem to keep away from him, Maker knows why.'

I shrugged. 'I don't know, that scene has some pretty realistic wincing as she's applying salve to his scratched face.'

Cullen waved that away. 'Merely a narrative trick intended to show that the hero is still only a man and can be physically—and therefore perhaps emotionally—vulnerable.'

'I see! If you're so savvy, you should write 'em yourself.'

I never know when to bring up shit from the past, but that's what I'm about to do. I know it can disrupt the narrative flow, but life does not have a narrative flow like one you make up in your head and rearrange by pinning sections together until it makes sense and reveals everything at just the right moment. If you tried to pass off real life as fiction, people would riot. So just... prepare yourself, I guess. This is a memoir, which means that the whole point is bringing up shit from the past.

I should tell you that at this juncture I wasn't pissed off about what he said, really. But something about it got under my generously-open collar, and I don't mind saying that it struck me right then that this was the longest conversation we'd had since we were stuck on a damn boat together on the crossing from Kirkwall. And the thing about that was that Cullen had never again brought up the conversations we'd had on that damn boat, and quite frankly if I didn't know any better I'd say he _avoided_ me.

I know, I know, he was a busy man, the burdens of command and so on. But when you spend several weeks in a damp, musty vessel together, your only other company being total or near-total strangers who either wished they could throttle you or who made sure people got throttled for a living... when you endure night after night of your hammocks ramming into each other's down in the hold every few minutes whenever the Waking Sea decided to really uncork itself at the husk (or whatever it is you call the sides of a ship), when you eat awful salted meat and hard bread out of the same trencher, drink stale water from the same bota-bag, puke over the same railings, survive the same near-shipwreck conditions— _twice_ —in short, when you've had something of a Life Experience together, you don't just shrug it off. Especially if you go on to work with the guy immediately afterwards. Granted, Skyhold isn't a boat, and Haven was only cramped if you had lofty expectations of it beyond its capabilities. It's not like we were on top of each other all day long. But the thing is, we _had_ been. Not, uh. Not literally, mind you. But close.

Take all that and there we were, stringing more words together in each other's direction than we had in over a year, and what did we do? Argue about semantics.

Not that I wasn't enjoying myself. Nobody ever really sits me down and has a wholesome shout at me about the quality of my work. I could do with a bit more of that, actually.

Cullen sighed, closing the book and sitting down against the edge of his desk. 'It's not _bad writing_ , necessarily—'

'Oh, flattery! With lines like that, you must get _all_ the authors.'

'—but it's not going to work as propaganda, unless you want the people who oppose us to have even _more_ reason to decry this organization as a self-important power-grab.'

'Would you say my writing is self-important?'

 _'All_ writing is self-important, if not masturbatory,' he said. 'But yes.'

'And you speak from what experience?'

He rolled his eyes. 'Having read it.'

'What, all of it?'

'No, not all of it.'

'Well, I think the size of your sword is self-important and masturbatory.'

'Shockingly, I find myself something other than a slave to your opinion,' he said, a flicker of amusement in his expression, 'but the honesty is refreshing.'

I tutted, scuffing my boot against the floor. 'Self-important my ass! Who's the one with the enormous office up a tower right at the front of the keep?'

'Who's the one depicted on the back cover of his books as being surrounded by fawning, buxom women?'

'Who _wouldn't_?' I said.

'I wouldn't.'

'You're not a writer. We're made of different stuff.'

'Ah, yes, the famous authorial _stuff_.'

'Some got it, some don't.'

'I reckon I'm in the latter category, if it takes _that_ much posturing to maintain.'

We stared each other down, then both tried not to smile.

Cullen looked away again, fiddling with the lid of his inkwell for something to do with his hands. When he ran out of banter, he succumbed to seriousness. I'm much the same, but at least I have the good sense to always have some banter kept in reserve.

'My point is,' he said, 'we're not _only_ vulnerable and complex individuals when the action dies down and it's time for romantic exposition. We're all people. We're afraid, some of us are under-trained, we fight with each other and make mistakes. We get hurt. We die.' He looked up. 'And yet despite that, we do what we're doing. We've banded together regardless of our shortcomings and prejudices, because we know that the whole is more important than the needs and opinions of the individual. And if someone gets a bandit's dagger to the meat of their arm, it's going to keep hurting. It hurts long after it heals, and jabs you with little reminders for decades—if you survive that long. The Inquisition is made up of people who _know_ this and do it anyway. _That's_ what we want Thedas to see. The fight scenes are just what moves the story from one place to another.'

I looked at him for a long moment. 'You know, Commander, this is why I didn't want to clean you up.' I stood and spun the chair back around the way I'd found it. 'I'll run stuff past you before it goes to press.' I smirked. 'And Ruffles, obviously. Wouldn't do to piss off anybody important.'

'I'm all for pissing them off,' said Cullen, whose posture had eased a little. 'Just as long as it doesn't splash back onto us.'

'Message received.'

The tension was almost entirely sucked out of the room, as if picked up by a passing dervish. He seemed to relax a bit more, and so did I. Maybe we'd just needed to argue about something, _anything_ , that wasn't life-or-death. It had been fun. I wished we did it more often.

'Varric—'

'Hmm?'

He looked like he was trying not to look as keen as he was. I knew the feeling, though not for the same reasons. 'What other sorts of things were you thinking might be included in this broadsheet of ours?'

'Oh, all sorts.' I leaned crossed arms against the back of the chair. 'Josephine said that it'd be good to provide some entertaining stuff and recent events in addition to the general "Hooray for the Inquisition!" material, so people don't feel like we're preaching at them. If somebody enjoys a story or a joke that we told them, they're more likely to give the rest of it a chance.'

'Sound reasoning, that.'

'She also mentioned wanting to inform people, but _subtly_ , that we're forward-thinking.'

'Can't we just put it at the top of the page in plain language?'

'It's not the Chant, Curly. Saying it directly at people over and over isn't the best strategy for most things. We have to be a little sneaky.'

'You would know, I'm sure.'

'Ignoring that remark. Again.' I smiled. 'So, we have to get it across that we embrace the arts, stuff like that. Little hints that we're a push for change.'

'The arts,' Cullen repeated.

'We do happen to employ several bards. And Solas paints—' though I doubted he'd be good with deadlines, 'stuff like that.'

'Ah.'

'Why, you have something to put in?'

' _Me?_ Maker, no. Only...' He got that shy look again. Well, it was shy under the scruff if you were looking carefully, which I was.

I can't resist goading him when he gets like that. 'Hmm? Ye-es?' I bounced my eyebrows. 'Got a suggestion for pin-up poses, do you?'

Cullen made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. 'Drop it.'

I gave him a facetious salute. 'Right away, ser.'

That got him to smile a little. 'All right, don't tell anyone, but...' He got up to put the book back in the shelf. 'When I was in Kirkwall I became... taken with something. And I've been too busy since to seek it out.'

 _That_ sounded like a juicy lead. 'Oho, what could've caught your fancy?'

He had his back to me so I couldn't see his face. I was starting to get the impression that when you're not on a boat with the man, he finds ways to look literally anywhere but at the person he's speaking to. Maybe it was just me.

 'I once found a book of verse that someone had left abandoned in a fountain.'

'Not _on_ a fountain?'

'In it.'

I still suspected I'd misheard. ' _In_ a fountain?'

'Yes.'

I continued addressing the back of his head, in disbelief. 'You dove in for it?'

'Not dove, precisely. It wasn't that deep. But what an odd thing to find in a fountain, and I wondered what sort of book it was, so I fished it out.' He cleared his throat a little. 'There was a slow patrol that night, I assure you.'

'But _poetry?_ You didn't strike me as the type.'

Cullen went back to his desk. 'I didn't think I was. But this fellow's work wasn't sappy or contrived, it was... well. It struck me. I ended up reading the entire volume cover to cover by torchlight, pages still dripping down my hand.'

'That's a mental image I'll hang onto.'

'There were some political messages amid the overall themes of examining belief and oneself, and a few love poems of course.'

'Naturally.'

'They were rather good.'

'I'll bet, if Bob Kirkwall tried to drown it in a fountain.' Only somebody grappling with powerful emotions can give that much of a shit about poetry.

'When the Circle fell I lost my copy—along with everything else I'd kept in the barracks—and I could never find the time to ask around after another. Who would I ask?' He laughed a little under his breath. 'But I'd memorized a few of the poems that had been especially, ah. Meaningful. At that time in my life.'

I wondered where this was going, and I said so.

Cullen looked a bit at a loss, loath to ask a personal favor of me so soon after the drawing for his nephew, but he soldiered on. It's kind of his thing. 'Perhaps you might know of the poet in question? Or someone among your literary contacts who would.'

He made it out like my social calendar was bursting with other writers, which was far from the case, but I didn't want to disappoint the guy when it had taken such obvious effort to admit that he was a hound for the sort of poetry somebody tries to destroy into a public water feature.

'If it were possible,' he went on, 'I'd like to secure his permission to reprint some of his verses.' Cullen looked down at his hands. 'I figure that if his work spoke to and comforted me in a dark time, so might it be a comfort to others.'

It couldn't hurt to spread a little hopefulness on his behalf. 'Sure, I'll do what I can. What's the guy's name?'

'Arch Tarstrive,' said Cullen. 'I think he may be a surface dwarf—there were a number of incendiary pieces lambasting the caste system. Have you ever heard the name?'

I had heard of it.

More than that, I'd come up with it, "Arch Tarstrive" being the catchiest anagram I could concoct of "Varric Tethras".

'You know something, Curly? I think I even have his address.'


	2. The Pseudonym, The Letter, and The Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Can anyone tell me what this is?' I asked the assembled.  
> The assembled stared at me. Some of the assembled at the back were scratching themselves.

I don't know if you've had the same experience, but sometimes I get stuck in a rut with a creative venture, to the point where it feels like the only recourse is to go up on a roof somewhere, set the whole damned project on fire and hurl the ashes overboard into the street to be trampled by horses.

This was my state of mind while I was attempting to compose the penultimate installment of _Hard in Hightown_. (I highly recommend avoiding publication until your story is complete. Trust me on this, as someone who's primarily put out my works on a chapter-by-chapter basis as I composed them: Avoid sequential releases like the Blight.)

I'd written myself into so many corners it felt like I was navigating Lowtown in the dark from the inside of a crate. You can't round up everybody who's ever read your serial so far and say "Hey, so remember that Mysterious Figure? Well, there is no Mysterious Figure anymore. Forget you ever read that. Also forget the pirates." They'd take me up on some kind of charges.

There was only one thing to be done. I went down from my rooms to the bar, ordered a portion of ale about the size of my head, and got down to the important authorial process of Giving Up For The Night.

'Hey, Nibs,' said the barman. 'Can you do us a sign for over the privy trough? I've spent a bloody fortune on floor rushes this month.'

So I scrawled a little couplet in my notebook, tore it out and handed it to him:

_Please refrain from sloppy sloshing;  
Aim as if Andraste's watching._

Short, memorable, and to the point. And I'd heard somewhere that people assume that things that rhyme are true, especially if you can pronounce them while completely smashed.

A week later, still in my how-do-I-finish-this funk, a young minstrel with a decent voice and lute skills but no head for words whatsoever gave me ten royals to put lyrics to a very good tune, which ended up being something of a success. And every time I got stuck on my novel, I started to pen a little verse instead. They added up, and got better. I branched out from the jocular into the political, from quippy to soul-baring, and it felt good. If nothing else, it kept the ink flowing.

But I'd established my persona as an author, you see, and it had been a good one for years: I was the tough, no-holds-barred realist, the sharp, cynical commentator on modern life whose rough exterior was nevertheless irresistible to ladies. If I put out a book of poetry under my own name? In _Kirkwall_? Forget fountains, the kind of guys who fashioned themselves after my protagonists would probably come throw shit grenades into my window (if I'd had a window). I talked to my editor, who exasperatedly suggested I pick a pen name and get it all out of my system so I could focus on _finishing my damn serial and starting the next one._

Thus, Arch Tarstrive was born.

I wrote whatever was on my mind. It was a refreshing change from prose, because in a way I could tackle things more directly, in a shorter, punchier, more incisive manner. I could express my own opinions—because even behind the mask of a pseudonym, it was freer than remaining in-character while _also_ not verging on preachiness. I mean, have you ever tried to make declarative statements about how you see the world, in a fictional context?

('While the Tethras oeuvre may be diverting to the average intelligence, the more _elevated_ thinker may chafe at the author's "ultra-modern" and quite frankly unreasonable demands upon the worldview of the reader. If you do not rise every morning and beat your chest like a barbarian, proclaiming your cheap novelty perspective through ungainly metaphors designed to look fiendishly clever but that fall flat upon close inspection, then you certainly will not appreciate Tethras' need to do so.' -Nesbitt Fond, author of _Death in the Dales_ , one-star review

'It is impossible to read a Tethras composition without stepping into his personal world, which is to say, a world so entrenched in filth and liberal nonsense that a nug would turn its nose up at it. After cringing my way through _The Viper's Nest_ , I wore out no less than five scrub-brushes trying to feel clean again. May the reader proceed with _extreme_ caution, and may the Maker have mercy on Mr Tethras' misguided soul.' -Cornelius Hepplewhite, editor of _Andrastian Book Review Monthly_

'He's an idiot.' -Florence Craye, author of _Spindrift_ , without prompting)

Critics get their smalls in a tangle when an author comes across as _too opinionated_.

So, like I said, I was enjoying myself, at a time when I'd become so disheartened about my three then-unfinished serials that I'd nearly considered retiring. Thanks to a sign over the Hanged Man's privy trough, over the course of a couple years I ended up with seven volumes of the works of Arch Tarstrive, which made me a lot of gold and kept me from the bleaker pits of creative despair. I got back on track with _Hard in Hightown_ , and it all worked out. Since then, I've viewed poetry as a sort of release valve, to get rid of all the extraneous thoughts weighing me down so I can focus.

In the present, I'd once again been struggling with my current Big Project, feeling like it was deeply stupid and irrelevant when the world was (probably) ending and all kinds of creepy shit was being decanted out of holes in the damn sky. I had a lot to think about, and was learning a lot about other people's politics and the state of the world, more so than I'd ever had to in my years as a businessman and only half-decent spymaster. Much of this I worked through by writing poems.

Sounds corny, I know. Or maybe it doesn't—people fall back on simple tasks when the harder obstacles seem impossible to surmount. So I happened to have a stack of poems in a drawer in my room, and now (just as a reminder) I had my own printing press.

And this was the kicker, even though I didn't see it at the time: Cullen had shown personal interest in bringing Arch Tarstrive into service of the Inquisition. Said that my work had spoken to him, been something to hold onto.

Well, what kind of guy says no to _that?_

* * *

I'd spent much of the day directing workers, which was strange. Normally the orders-giving falls to about ten other people before it gets to me—not unlike a dog-eared and suspiciously-stained copy of everyone's favorite smut primer, _The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Mal Flanders,_ passed from friend to friend until it practically disintegrated—but the presses were my responsibility, and the broadsheet my idea in the first place, so there I was. After I'd sent people off with coin for a round at the tavern, I stood alone in the underground hall and surveyed my new base of operations.

Despite being leery of actual dwarven-type subterranean spaces, I enjoy a nice cellar. They tend to maintain a consistent temperature and lack the unpredictable light as would be provided by windows. Still air and steady torches, plenty of room to knock around but not so much ceiling as to make you feel like an insignificant speck—that's an ideal work space, in my opinion.

The hinge oil I'd applied to a mysteriously stuck door had finally seeped into all the moving parts, so I figured I'd add wherever-it-led to my map before emerging for dinner.

Beyond the door was a smallish room shaped like your typical potion flask (that is to say, a sort of narrow neck leading into a round chamber), and it was packed floor to ceiling with books. I may have muttered a curse or two as I walked along the shelves, surveying the embossed spines with wonder.

I opened some books. I closed some books. I have a vague recollection of smelling a couple of them.

I had a long think.

Here's the thing about being a writer: It isn't about cranking out scroll after scroll until you find something interesting to say. The best way to write is to consume _everything,_ then write surprisingly little. Histories, inflammatory manifestos, poetry, passion plays, comedies, guardsmen's reports, other people's mail when they're not looking, diaries found in the trash, jargon-heavy inter-Chantry theological debates, trapper's guides, Circle homework, cosmetics handbooks for thirteen-year-old Orlesian girls, receipts in the pockets of dead guys—if I could get my hands on 'em, I'd read 'em, and never have I encountered a book that didn't improve my craft. Even when they were shit. Hell, _especially_ when they were shit.

And these? This creepy little library had probably been untouched for decades, if not a century. Some of the volumes looked like they might crumble in my hands; others bore strange, unfamiliar alphabets that went around the page instead of the usual side to side or up and down; a few were bound in skins that definitely looked like they came from a _person._

Now, on the one hand I wanted to hole up in there for the next month, read everything and not let another soul know about it, but on the other hand I wasn't a fool. I knew that

  1. I couldn't translate some (if not most) of this stuff,
  2. Some of the books were probably _ages_ old and technically relics, so if I accidentally dropped one and it dissolved into a puff of dust, the academics of the Inquisition would call for my immediate execution, and
  3. There were a _lot_ of cobwebs in here, and I hate getting webby hands.



I would need help with this. I knew just who to ask.

* * *

Dorian stood in the doorway with his mouth slightly open.

'You need a minute alone? You're drooling.'

'I am not,' he said, pulling on a pair of cotton gloves before touching anything, and if that doesn't tell you that he was the perfect person to let in on this secret, then nothing will. 'That was a look of holy ecstasy, as it happens.'

'Really? I understand why they passed that one over when doing stained glass stories from the Chant.'

Dorian tutted. 'Please, I'm a work of art no matter the expression on my face.' He'd picked up a slim volume and opened it carefully. 'Maker, this is an _original Diodati_.'

'Is that good?' I said, before glancing at the open pages. 'Oh, I saw that one. The text is kind of weird, isn't it? This Diodati guy seemed like a bit of an individualist, I mean, imagine telling your engraver that everything had to be in a spiral. I'd send an enemy to make that order, because they'd probably come home in a match box.'

Dorian took a moment to respond, absorbed in examining the book. 'Hm? Oh. The "usual way" has only been such for the past few ages. This,' he gently tapped one of the illuminated letters around the edge, 'is written in Lingua Avitus, or "Grandfather Tevene". Circles and spirals were believed to be the most natural pattern of movement for the human eye to follow— I think that was one of Plinius Secundus' old saws. And of course, the authors of the time only ever intended other humans to be able to read it.'

'Is this the same as Ancient Tevene?'

'Good heavens, no. This predates even that.'

I was starting to get the Holy Ecstasy angle now. 'How is it so well-preserved?' I asked. 'Shouldn't it be falling apart?'

'Ah, there's where you have me.' Dorian peered closely at the cover from different angles. 'Perhaps an imbued barrier with an _extremely_ formidable half-life. That or the parchment was scraped from an Old God's hide.'

'I vote for the first thing.' I went and sat in the giant chair behind the desk, which I'd managed to get mostly clear of cobwebs by stabbing at it with a broom before I'd brought Dorian down there. 'Hey, Sparkler.'

He was currently huffing the end papers of the Diodati book, humming with pleasure. 'Mmyes?'

'Ever heard of Arch Tarstrive?'

Dorian made a so-so gesture with his hand. 'An old friend had one of the collections of love poems that's banned in Tevinter, _very_ saucy, and I picked up one of the mixed-bag volumes at that dwarven bookseller in Redcliffe. I can't say I'm _exceedingly_ familiar? But I know of him—or her, I suppose.' He gently put the old book back where he'd found it and skimmed along the shelf for anything else that caught his eye. 'It's what the angry, disenfranchised youth are reading.'

'And disenfranchised former Templars, apparently. Curly's a fan and wants me to pull literary strings so we can get reprint rights.'

'Might be easier just to recruit them,' Dorian noted. 'We've got a lot of pull with that end of the political spectrum already. Do you know what poems appealed to our dear commander? Assume I'm asking for a friend.'

I rolled my eyes, putting my feet up on the desk. The heels of my boots left a smudge in the dust, revealing that the surface was still curiously shiny underneath the grime. 'Pretty sure nobody could woo that guy. Tell your "friend",' (Dorian smirked at me) 'they're better off trying to serenade an angry bear.'

He put on a look of mock-surprise. 'Surely the commander would be more amenable than _Blackwall_. Besides, wooing is _so_ far from the point as to be on a different map.'

'Hush, you.' I got out my pocket notebook and wrote a reminder to myself to talk to Dagna, who would know how to make a wickedly difficult-to-pick lock for the door. 'To answer your question, I have no idea, but he said it _spoke_ to him.'

Dorian stopped perusing the shelf and turned to raise a brow at me. 'It _spoke_ to him?' His tone was one of delighted incredulity.

'And comforted him in a dark time,' I added.

'Can't have been the one about nugs, then.'

'Yeah, doubtful.'

'Nor, I should think, the one about arguing with one's friend's lover in lieu of _being_ that lover.'

'Not particularly comforting,' I agreed.

'Huh.' Dorian straightened up and took off his gloves. 'Well, now this will plague me, Varric. If I am found somewhere with my insides all eaten up by curiosity, leaving me no more than a handsome husk, I blame you.'

'Hey!' I laughed. 'Blame Cullen, why don't you!'

'Hmm, no, not as fun,' Dorian tucked his gloves away in his belt pouch. 'You _protest_. Cullen would just slump and accept the onus of guilt, likely figuring out additional points where he went wrong and informing me.'

I swung my feet down from the desk and got up. It was definitely time to get out of the dust and around some supper. 'Good grief, I don't think he's _that_ much of a sad sack.'

'Nor do I, to be frank.' Dorian tipped his head back and sighed. He put on a put-upon voice. 'But it's _lonely_ at the top, is it not? That man needs a good, hard—'

'Watch it,' I said.

'—nap,' Dorian finished pointedly.

'Good save.'

'And a wank,' he added, to spite me. 'Perhaps the poem that "comforted" him so was one of the naughty ones?'

We made our way across the chamber that was becoming the press room.

'I don't think he'd want to print one of those in Inquisition materials,' I said, then doubled back to my little library's door and had Dorian put a spell on it to keep people out. We turned back for the stairs.

'Is this broadsheet going to have a name?' Dorian asked.

I hadn't thought of that, and I said so. I've always been bad at titles, leaving them until the absolute last moment and then usually going with something alliterative and vague.

'Why not simply call it "The Herald"?' Dorian suggested. 'Bit punny, I'll grant you, but the masses love a good pun.'

And I had to admit, he was right.

* * *

 _Varric,_ read the message that I found on my desk,

_I thought it might behoove you in your literary negotiations if ~~I informed~~ you knew what poem I'd been referring to. I can't recall the title, but the verse follows. Thank you again for cooperating in this propaganda ~~malarkey~~ situation._

_Regards,  
Cullen_

Well. First of all, 'regards'? He signed off like we barely knew each other. I frequently receive letters from friends bearing no salutation at all and ending with 'oh, and fuck you, by the way' without so much as a signature. Secondly, Cullen explained himself on paper just the same as he did in person: like he was waiting to be told he shouldn't have said anything, but with an edge of defiance through which you could practically hear a response of _oh yeah?_ after the anticipated scolding. And I didn't think anyone used 'behoove' other than passive-aggressive magistrates handing down sentences of public humiliation or similar. It's one of those words you toss in to make something sound official.

The rest of the little scroll was far less hastily penned, as if the commander had been intentionally careful.

 _The dark has always waited,_  
_The dark has always known;_  
_It cannot be evaded_  
_Once seeds of it are sown;_  
_It cannot be avoided_  
_Once its foundations lay—_  
_But I was young and foolish_  
_And thought to run away._

 _The dark has always waited,_  
_Though I was loath to wait;_  
_I overcompensated,_  
_I rashly rushed the gate._  
_I swore the fear abated,_  
_But in my heart it grew:_  
_The darkness had but waited._  
_The darkness always knew._

And below, very small, a post-script:

_It may not seem encouraging to others, perhaps, but knowing someone felt the way I did made a world of difference._

I remembered writing that poem. In the lull—after the thaig, after the city had calmed for a while as much as it ever did, after Hawke had moved up in the world—I'd spent a lot of time in my own head. Mostly I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Since then, so many other shoes have dropped that I've begun to suspect the work of some poorly-shod cosmic centipede. But at the time I was still up to my eyeballs in fear of the future, at an age where that particular terror had never really been a part of my life before. And I felt like all that fear was, at least in part, my own damn responsibility.

To know that someone had felt the same _was_ comforting.

I read over the note in my hands again, feeling a weird tightness in my throat. Then I set it aside, got out a bit of paper that wasn't from the stationer who supplied Skyhold, and set about the task of concocting believable handwriting for Arch Tarstrive. When I'd made the key decisions about style and voice, I put my pen in my off hand and wrote a letter to myself.

Arch Tarstrive sounded almost entirely unlike me. He was a mix of people I've encountered in my life—an unholy blend of Iron Lady, Sparkler, Hawke, a certain grump who glows in the dark, and a few others. The only evidence of Varric Tethras was in the salutation, which was just how I wanted it. What good was a disguise if it didn't keep you hidden?

The following day I would take that letter and drop it in a puddle, allow a horse to step on it, unfold it and fold it again just slightly the wrong way and reseal the wax crooked, carry it around in my pocket, set a damp mug on it, and generally foul it up enough to look like it had come a long way. Then I'd put it in my desk drawer and wait a week to deliver it to myself, and then I would hand it off to Cullen.

I realize that you're probably wondering why the hell I'd put myself out so much just to avoid telling anybody my _nom de plume_. And you'd have a point. But some things can only be confessed anonymously, you know what I mean? That might be why Orlesians seem to be able to say the cruelest shit you can think of and get away with it—because no one's looking at their faces. And while cruelty didn't factor into it in the slightest, Arch Tarstrive was a mask I didn't yet want to hang up, especially now that he'd have a _lot_ more to write about.

* * *

Some things had come up, and I spent a couple of days going over correspondence with Ruffles to spot merchant-specific lies, but when I was done with that little assignment the Age of the Presses began.

I'd located a nice, stout broom handle, and was now using it to point at the roll of canvas that covered the wall at the end of the press room. There'd been a huge painting there, earlier, but Josephine had insisted it was a priceless example of early something-or-other and had promptly had it removed.

'Can anyone tell me what this is?' I asked the assembled.

The assembled stared at me. Some of the assembled at the back were scratching themselves. This was far from being all the kids in the castle, but it was enough to keep them from causing too much trouble. I recognized all of them, and most had been at the opening of the crates.

'Er,' said a dwarf girl of about thirteen, whose primary features included a nose ring and a gap tooth. 'It's a cube, so what?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you, Miss—?'

'Goodmountain.'

'Thank you, Miss Goodmountain. It is, as you say, a cube or block. And on each cube or block is a letter or a punctuation mark.'

'Like a _baby's_ blocks?' said Be-Thankful Sweetwater. 'We're not _children_ ,' she added, disparagingly, as only a nine-year-old can. I think that one had been spending a little too much time at old Uncle Dorian's knee, to have cultivated a grasp of italics like that, but I let the comment slide.

'Exactly like that, only we line them all up to make the words we want and then we use _these_ guys,' I held up a brayer and spun the roll, 'to paint them with ink. Then the paper gets put over the top of them, and the big flat part,' I pointed to another of the charcoal sketches on the roll of canvas, 'smooshes it all together, and that's how you use a letter press.'

'"Smoosh"?' said Algar, who had politely refrained from being on fire that day.

'Very technical term,' I said, before moving on. 'So we're going to get together everybody who can read already—show of hands?—' that was only two hands, the same kids who'd checked the inventory for me the other day, but it was something, 'and the readers will read stuff we need to print. Whoever's manning the letter box will put the word blocks in line in the press, only,' I waggled my fingers, 'backwards.'

'Backwards?' said Ditta Falconer, whom I still owed a candied pear. I knew this because she'd introduced herself on the stairs, holding her hand out stiff-armed to shake mine. She was seven and would tell anyone who stood still long enough that she could tie ten different bows she'd learned out of a picture book.

'Because otherwise it shows up on the paper backwards from how you want it to be,' I said. 'Observe.'

I dipped my finger in some ink and daubed a pair of eyes on the glossy surface of a blank block, and showed it to them all. 'Which way are they looking?'

'West!'

'Left!'

'Ah, good, we know directions in here, too. Now, watch.' I pressed the block to the canvas and stepped back.

A few of the smaller kids gasped.

'How did you do that?' said Mads Sorensson, local axe-maniac.

'Magic,' I joked.

Be-Thankful narrowed her eyes at me. 'Liar. Dwarves can't _do_ magic.'

'You're a very serious little girl, aren't you?' I remembered the incident with the spike trap, and how grimly she'd waited for her prey to fall into it. No Sera-like slant of mischief about this one, only cold, hard determination.

'I want to be an assassin,' said Be-Thankful. 'But this will do. _For now._ '

It was going to be a long morning.

Eventually I got the basics of each of the presses across. Gunilla and Egon were set to the task of teaching the non-readers the names of each letter and mark required to form the written word; there would be a test at the end of the week. When not instructing the other kids, the readers had to practice reading backwards, letter by letter, at increasing speeds. Jerrit Hopworth, who was good with a pencil, started practicing copying hollow outlines of simple drawings, then doing it again onto thin boards of floatwood; Mads, to his delight, was working on gently tapping a very sharp chisel at different depths. With time, he'd make a competent engraver—I'd make certain of it, since Dorian had bet me he wouldn't.

Once everyone had something to think about, bang on, or say very fast, I retired to my little office at the opposite end of the press room. I'd managed to get it cleaned up all right, and Dorian had aided me in putting temporary barriers on the shelves, so no sticky-fingered child (or fellow rogue) could make off with anything ancient and important.

I was just sitting down at the now-incredibly-shiny desk when I misjudged the height of the chair (hey, I was new to the place, all right?) and banged my shin on the edge of the desk.

' _Fuck!_ '

'Oi, you all right in there, Mister Tethras?' shouted Egon.

'Fine,' I called back, gritting my teeth. Damned leg wound. 'Just... fine. Thanks.'

There was some rapid pre-adolescent muttering in the press room beyond.

'What did he say?'

'Mister Tethras said "fuck"!'

'What's a fuck?'

'Oh, all _sorts_. One of the girls what does the washing says that Master Dennet is a grouchy old fuck.'

'Is it a sort of person, then?'

'Sometimes,' said Be-Thankful, conspiratorially. 'But it's also something you mustn't to do in the Chantry.'

'Well, now,' said Gunilla, sounding mock-prim and schoolmarmly, 'how do we spell "fuck"? Eff, You—'

'Oh, Maker's balls, don't spell "fuck"!' I shouted through the closed door. 'For fuck's sake,' I added under my breath.

'Shall we learn to spell "balls" instead, Mister Tethras?' Gunilla hollered.

There were titters. They'd probably learn to spell _that_ , too.

'I'm never having children,' I told the Inquisitor later that day, when the kids had been dismissed for the afternoon. We were sitting on the battlements over the sparring ring, making minor wagers on the outcome of Bull and Krem's scrum, sharing a basket of dried blueberries between us. 'If I ever show even the slightest interest in having children, shoot me. Just shoot me right in the head.'

'You're chipper today,' said the Inquisitor, then winced as one of the fighters below took a blow to the groin. 'Ohhhh! Mind your storefront, love!'

Dorian swung a leg over the ledge and sat with us, always a glutton for complaining. 'All those bright young minds, huh? It brings a joyful tear to my eye.'

'Yeah, it's bringing a different kind of tears to mine. How have you been _tutoring_ them for months?' I said with a passionate gesture. 'They don't sit still, they spit on each other, Algar smells like burning hair and I'm pretty sure Be-Thankful wants to kill me in my sleep.'

'Aww,' said the Inquisitor. 'That's sweet of her. She usually threatens to wake people up, first.'

Dorian nudged my foot with his own to get my attention, then smirked. 'Have you mentioned it yet?'

I scrubbed a hand down my face. 'I was going to continue _not_ mentioning it, forever.'

'It would come out eventually!' He turned to the Inquisitor. 'You do read, don't you, darling?'

That got an amused eyeroll. 'No, Dorian, I stop whatever I'm doing and pick up dusty old books in abandoned cottages because I like to snort the glue.'

'You two have so much in common!' I said.

'If you're not going to announce it, then I will,' Dorian threatened cheerfully. Down in the ring, Bull had Krem slung over one shoulder and was spinning around, Krem wailing a comical _nooooo!_ and sticking his fingers in Bull's ears in retaliation, the fight clearly having turned to tomfoolery rather than actual practice. I passed the Inquisitor a handful of coins.

'You do love being the center of attention,' I said to Dorian. 'Go on, if you must. But if I get knocked off the battlements and become a sad little dwarf-scented smear on the stairs, I blame you.'

' _Me?'_ He sounded mock-affronted. 'Why not blame the Inquisitor?'

'Payback,' I said.

Dorian turned to the Inquisitor and said, 'He's named the broadsheet after you! Hah!' The he stuck his tongue out at me.

'I think I understand how you get along with the hellions,' I said. 'You're about on their level.'

'Don't call them hellions, Varric. I happen to adore them. They're precious gems of our future and should be treasured as such. Children carry one's legacy of knowledge, you know.'

I gave him a _look_. 'You've been teaching Sparky more fire spells, haven't you?'

Dorian crossed his arms, looking away loftily. 'I have _no_ idea to what you might be referring.'

'Hold up,' said the Inquisitor. 'You named the broadsheet after me? As in, _my name_?' I got a blueberry flicked at my face. 'That's a terrible idea!'

'But it's a pun,' Dorian pointed out.

'What? No, it isn't.'

I flicked a berry right back. 'Not your _name_ name, genius. The Herald.'

'I can't _believe_ you actually—' but the Inquisitor paused. 'Oh, I see. That's actually pretty good! Because heralds... heraldic thingy, banners, yeah. Well done.'

'I'm so glad you approve.'

And I was, really. It put a friendly shine on an otherwise trying day, and I needed all the help I could get. Because soon I was going to get a letter from myself, and who knew what that might lead to?


	3. The Volume, The Letter (Again), and The Terrible, Terrible Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He seems...' Cullen groped for words. 'Fond of you.'  
> 'Won't be the last, I'm afraid. I'm a menace. Trail of broken hearts in my wake a mile wide.'  
> Maker, I'm a good liar sometimes.

_From cracks between the cobbles_  
_Like gaps between its teeth,_  
_The city of all cities_  
_Spat out the ones beneath._

 _Up, up from hallowed chambers!_  
_Up from that ancient hole!_  
_The stone did nothing for you._  
_The stone is not your soul._

 _Speak up, and what will answer?_  
_Does stone assuage your doubt?_  
_The bottom drawer of Thedas_  
_Is ripe to be tipped out._

 _Break open every coffin_  
_Within that burial vault!_  
_For who among us, truly,_  
_Is lesser by default?_

 _Did stone teach you to harbor_  
_The prejudice you bear?_  
_Did stone demand damnation_  
_Of ones who take the air?_

 _Did stone count out in secret_  
_A fate for every head,_  
_A brand that would determine_  
_One's worth alive or dead?_

 _Remember this, my brothers,_  
_Though we exist at odds,_  
_That stone is naught but gravel_  
_We elevate to gods._

Maker, who knew I used to be so angry at Orzammar? Well, I know the answer to that—pretty much every surface dwarf has a bone to pick with Orzammar for some reason or other, and I'd been among the angriest, but like a good dwarf I buried it and kept it to myself. How the hell did I have so much energy to waste on being bitter? Not that I wasn't _still_ bitter, obviously. I'd just learned to temper it with a little sweetness now and then. Keeps the people coming back for more.

I flipped to another page, refreshing my memory. It had been years since I'd written this shit, and I wanted to know what I was getting into, sending a new copy of it to Cullen.

 _My dear, was it to hold you_  
_That I called it what I did?_  
_Was it meant to somehow reconcile_  
_The feelings that we hid?_  
_By oiling and maintaining it,_  
_Could I regain what's lost?_  
_By coiling back the tension_  
_Could I then release its cost?_  
_All thoughtful questions, these. Alas,_  
_They simply aren't true:_  
_Each time I pull the trigger_  
_And shoot someone,_  
_I've shot you._

Fuck! There had to be _something_ else in here that Cullen had found comforting, because it certainly wasn't that one.

 _You walked in with your head held high but left there on your knees._  
_If I could straighten out your spine,_  
_Bring all the little bones in line,_  
_Teach you to cherish who you are_  
_And see the beauty in each scar_  
_And feel secure in being mine,_  
_Then that's how I'd spend all my time,_  
_But you won't_  
_Hear that_  
_From me—_  
_You learned too fast you should deny what only you can see._

 _You walked in with defenses up and left yourself a wreck._  
_If you'd consent, I'd take your coat,_  
_Recite some pretty fibs I wrote,_  
_Show you I cherish who you are_  
_And wish for you on every star,_  
_And I would ask you to be mine,_  
_And that's how I'd spend all my time,_  
_But you won't_  
_Hear that_  
_From me—_  
_You learned too fast to close right up and keep your heart in check._

Maybe? Maybe that one. If he was a gloomy bastard.

This was depressing me more than I'd thought it would. Surely this volume wasn't the one Cullen had liked so much? But it was the only one with the poem in it he'd told me had spoken to him. Perhaps I shouldn't give him a new copy. Perhaps the perspective of growth and years would cause him to look at these verses and think Arch Tarstrive was as contrived and shallow as the commander had claimed he _wasn't._

Or maybe I was being a coward and should just leave the damn thing on his desk and be done with it.

Fuck.

* * *

_Varric, you old scamp, how the seven hells are you? Still alive, I see! Well done! I can't believe you're with the Inqui-bloody-sition, I had **no** conception whatsoever that you were so broad in the scope of your meddling. Don't you despise politics? I distinctly recall you slamming a fist against a bar-top and proclaiming "Perpetual Mild Discomfort To All Politicians!" I suggested "Death", of course, it being the more traditional rallying cry of the trodden-down masses, and you said no, that was too good for politicians. You wanted them to have a hangnail for the rest of their natural lives, or something like that. I've missed you._

_But really, Varric, **world politics?** That's more my area of musing and complaining, sweetness. You're going to strain yourself. I understand why you would write to me in your hour of need, aside from a longing for the old crowd. Maker, it **has** been years. Did you ever grow a beard at all, or are you still rebelliously sporting that downy baby scruff? Precious. Buy a proper razor._

_So it's propaganda, is it. Well, well. I shall have to see what I can muster in the way of new material. You lot are the wild card, aren't you? Bust up with the Big Hats, rooting for the underdog, and I even heard you've got a Tevinter and a Qunari in the mix. That's practically a Frighten The Chantry party pack! Please tell me you're not going to be hanged, I would **hate** to miss it. I stand by my promise to lead the crowd in a rousing rendition of that song you like, come the day of your inevitable execution. I shall garland thee with flowers, rend my clothing in grief, and throw a proper pissup for anyone who survives._

_You know I'm good for it, love. I do, after all, owe you a **terrible** amount of money._

_And in the meantime, by all means, reprint my work. I relish the opportunity to assist you with thumbing your nose at the established order. As it happens, I've been in rather a spot of bother of late—you know me and my tongue, tripping along where it really oughtn't!—so I'd welcome a welcome, if you know what I mean. Not that I'd ram myself practically up the nostril of the heavens, as you seem to have done! Really, Varric, you're up too damn high. Everything's covered in snow, up there. You're not a mountain goat. Please be safe, and perhaps—for me, pet, only to ease my troubled mind—tie a stout cord round yourself and affix it to a post somewhere._

_But yes, I wouldn't mind in the slightest if it became known that I've got friends in high places. You know how it is, Varric. The people we know. The sort of situations where I put my foot in my mouth. At times I'm astonished by the staggering breadth of my own luck, not yet having been stuck on a pike outside the city as a warning to others!_

_I'm flattered to learn that someone in such an esteemed position thinks highly of my work. (I don't mean you, of course, old crumpet, I mean the commander you mentioned.) Is he handsome? I'll bet he is. I recall you describing the fellow in The Tale of the Champion as having curly blond hair and statuesque expression. I assumed that the statue you meant was Hector In His Time of Dying, because you **know** what sort of man I am. Please do keep me posted, I'm all agog._

_Enclosed is a copy of the volume you requested. I absolutely believe that someone would have flung it passionately into a fountain. Romantic way to go, isn't it, drowning? I hear it ends in ecstasy._

_I'll send some of my recent stuff along with my next reply, shall I, darling? War's spread everywhere, even up to the end of my tufted footstool; perhaps there's something you could use for your little paper._

_I remain as always—devoted friend, quite literally eternally in your debt, and yours—_

_Archie_

'I figured you'd want to hear it from the source,' I said. 'Not, uh... not the personal remarks,' I added, lying, 'the agreement to republish, and that he wants to help.'

'He doesn't sound at all like what I imagined,' said Cullen thoughtfully. He tapped a particular passage of the letter with the tip of his finger, but didn't say anything about it. 'Well, perhaps a little.' A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

I shrugged. 'He's a flashy guy, what can I say? They sometimes make 'em like that in Kirkwall.'

'Oh, he's _from_ Kirkwall, then? What a coincidence.'

'That's a good question,' I hedged, feigning ignorance despite having concocted an elaborate backstory for my alter ego ages ago, 'I think he is, anyway...? I don't know if we ever talked about it in any detail.'

'No matter,' said the commander. 'Varric, thank you. I know it may seem like a trifle, when so many important decisions are in play, but...' He trailed off. 'This little thing,' he said, quietly. 'Just this one thing. I... Well. Thank you.'

I didn't know what to say to that, so I waved it away. 'Save it for the man himself,' I found myself saying, which I immediately realized was a bad idea and scrambled to correct. 'Not that he's joining up or something, you saw what he said. Just wants protection, or the guise of it. Could do worse, I guess. Anyway, a little thank-you note wouldn't go amiss. Or a you're-welcome note—you did just give him a _lot_ of exposure.'

'I'll do that.' A pause. 'He seems...' Cullen groped for words. 'Fond of you.'

'Won't be the last, I'm afraid. I'm a menace. Trail of broken hearts in my wake a mile wide.'

Maker, I'm a good liar sometimes.

And poor guy, he had no idea. His eyebrows raised a little. 'Did you...?' Comprehension dawned. 'You two have a history, then.'

'What?' I hadn't intended for the flirtation element to go _that_ far. 'Oh. Well, uh. Maybe. A little one-sided, as histories go.'

'Ah.' Good old Curly and his understated discomfort with anything to do with relationships. I should've known he'd drop it the second I— 'He does sound charming. I couldn't blame you.'

Reader, let's take a minute to unpack that. Just… roll those words over in your mind. I'll wait.

Now, you know and I know that sometimes a writer gets carried away and describes something overly dramatic that couldn't have possibly happened. You know what I mean, right? Someone walks into a room where some grisly tableau is laid out to surprise them, and their fingers go nerveless with shock, causing a fine Serault wine glass to shatter across the floor? Well, I feel like this is one of those moments where I, the protagonist of this ridiculous thing, choked a little on my reply or nearly bit my tongue or something.

I didn't, really. I just sort of stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands. Curly had taken a neat little lie and turned it on its head, making me out to be, I don't know, _bashfully trying to deny I had a thing for Arch Tarstrive_ , when my intention had been to imply that Arch had had a thing for _me._ He'd gone the long way around and got the wrong end of the stick, probably because he's Fereldan and his reaction was Oh boy! A stick!

Andraste's tits, you just can't improvise with some people. They make you _work_ at it.

'I look forward to reading his recent work,' said Cullen thoughtfully. 'What I read of his during the Occupation showed a remarkable insight into the mental state of people in... positions like my own.'

'No kidding?' Damn it, damn it, damn it. Now I _really_ had to do a good job. How do I always set myself up to let people down? It's a curse, I tell you. 'Well, we'll see, huh?'

Curly smiled to himself again, looking down at the little book in his hands. 'So we shall.'

* * *

_He does sound charming._

Those four words rattled around my brain like a spoon trying to get the last bit of jam from the jar.

I leaned on my hands on the worktop down in the press room, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. 'Tell me again, Chopper. Speak up.'

Mads fretted with the nubs of his bitten-down fingernails. 'We don't chisel comical cock an' balls into the table,' he said, thoroughly morose.

'All right, I've given you enough grief for one day.' I straightened up, looking around at the other kids. 'Where's Dollface?'

'Gone to get a coffee, ser!' said Ditta. I'd remembered her pear, today, and she was eager to wrestle another one out of me. 'Have I got a nickname, ser?'

'You're Snowdrop.' Because the night before, I'd spotted her up on the roof of the Herald's Rest with Buttercup, dropping snowballs on people as they left the tavern. 'Why in blazes does Gunilla need a coffee? She's thirteen.'

'Why do _grown-ups_ need coffee?' Sparky wondered aloud. He smelled a bit less whiffy today, and apparently had a philosophical soul.

'It's from Antiva,' Egon noted to no one in particular. 'That makes it posh.'

Spike had something to say about that, uncorking a prize sneer. 'Not _everything_ from Antiva is posh. Besides, the _best_ coffee is from _Tevintah_.'

I couldn't tell you where coffee comes from or even what it looks like when it's not already in a cup, but I could definitely pick out of a lineup the person who'd been telling her stories.

'They sweeten it with almond essence,' she added, 'which makes it hard to taste poison.'

I dragged my hands down my face, and only found out later that they'd had ink on them because the kids were snickering behind their own grubby little hands about it, damn them. 'All right, all right, no more assassination plots for today, please, we need to focus. Spike, do your letters. Chopper, please refrain from chiseling in that particular location. Tell Dollface to do her practice run when she gets back, would you?'

Snowdrop beamed at me, sensing an opportunity to garner more sweets. 'Yes, ser! Will do, ser!'

I limped back to my office, pushing the door to so I could hear if anything catastrophic happened _before_ the hypothetical flames reached me, and sat down at my desk.

I had a volume of poetry to throw together from about six journals worth of material. It was worse than finding a needle in a haystack, it was finding about thirty favorite pieces of hay in the haystack, all of which was (guess what!) also hay.

I skimmed through my pocket notebook, sorted and re-sorted the loose pages that I'd brought down from my room. I dog-eared various things, started to assemble a loose table of contents.

_He does sound charming. I couldn't blame you._

(Oh, yeah? Well, I made him up! Stick that in your pipe!)

It wasn't like I'd never made something up for Curly, before. We _did_ spend several weeks cooped up in a ship together during one of the worst storm seasons on the Waking Sea since the days when there were still Drakons running around. There was nothing else to do but endure it, tell stories and talk. And we _did_ talk.

A lot.

About a lot of things.

Choked words in the dark, the lantern had tipped over on the last swell, Maker, I felt like dying, why did I agree to this? Somehow the Seeker slept through anything, she slept like the dead, damn Nevarrans. Damn weather. Damn mages and Templars and everything, but what's he saying? What? 'I enjoyed it.' What's he on about? Now isn't the time for a friendly chat! But he sounded so—'I never told anyone how it felt. The... the _power_ of it. I don't expect you know what I mean.' Shut up, Curly, I'm too seasick for this shit, and (unspoken) I don't want to relate to you right now because right now I hate everything about you and everything you stood for, because that's how I ended up on this _fucking boat_ , you ass, why don't you go and boil your—'I want to pursue Seeker Pentaghast's mission, but... I'm not a good man. I don't know if I ever can be, if I felt so... if I felt like _that_. Ever. Knowing that that's inside me, somewhere. That feeling.' Why the fuck are you telling me this? Why me? 'If we don't make it through this, I want someone to have known. To feel like I was able to confess to someone, outside of... outside of prayer.' Maker, I don't want to die. I don't want to die, please don't let me die. Don't let _us_ die. And when the storm broke, the way he looked at me, it was different. I'd been his confessor. And many nights later, so close to harbor but _another_ damn storm, we were so close to making it, so fucking close!—'I understand,' I said, 'I _understand_ , all right? I've felt it. I think about it every day. That damned idol. And if I have to live with it, _then so do you_.'

And all that evaporated the instant we set foot on solid ground. It's not like I wanted to _talk_ about it ever again, but...

What gives?

I located a particular poem, penned a few weeks ago when I'd heard he was going off the blue stuff, and stuck it in the stack.

 _The world churned beyond the hold_  
_And we clung to each other._  
_It wasn't a whisper, but the roar of waves_  
_Made even a shout feel hushed._  
_I told you I didn't want to die, and you said_  
_You didn't want me to, either._  
_As the storm raged, you told me things_  
_You had only told Andraste._

 _The world burns beyond our walls_  
_And we turn from each other._  
_It isn't on purpose, but the sting of fear_  
_Makes every choice feel just._  
_I'd tell you I don't want you to die, but you'd say_  
_You didn't want us to worry._  
_As the storm peaks, I carry things_  
_I have only told Andraste._

This was stupid. What kind of person uses their pseudonym as a mouthpiece? Beyond the usual reason, obviously. Beyond the reason I'd invented him in the first place.

Ah, fuck. I was _not_ going to use Arch Tarstrive to needle Curly.

_(He does sound charming.)_

That's a lie—I absolutely was.

* * *

It was late. I'd been wading through my own writing for hours and had only just emerged. The kids had long since gone off to run around and cause trouble and eat other people's food, as was their wont. I had a moment's peace. What I call peace, most people call insufferable noise, but I'm from Kirkwall. Silence gives me the willies.

Left on my usual table in the hall, weighed down with a mug, was a note from the commander.

_Varric, I had a moment to write something to Mr Tarstrive, if you would be ~~kind enough~~ willing to send it along. Regards, Cullen._

Under it was a larger piece of paper, folded over several times.

The hall was full of people at this hour, eating and talking and drinking; a couple of teenagers were sitting on the Inquisitor's throne with their legs dangling over the armrests, making out, while Ruffles' new secretary Adelette tried to shoo them off. No one was going to notice if I was reading something; after all, I basically always was.

_Mr Tarstrive,_

_~~Thank you so much~~ _ _~~I thank you~~ My sincerest thanks for granting the Inquisition permission to print your work in our broadsheet. I don't know what all Mr Tethras told you, but he seems to have conveyed ~~that I'm a~~ that I appreciate your poetic voice. As you may know, I was serving in Kirkwall with the Order during the time of the Occupation and the start of the Rebellion, and some of your poems comforted me ~~very much~~ greatly during that period. ~~I do wish Mr Tethras had not mentioned that I found the book in a fountain.~~_

_I look forward to reading whatever works you may ~~permit me to~~ place at our disposal._

_Warmest regards,_

_Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Inquisition_

Compared to how he usually wrote, this was Curly practically falling all over himself. Did he think people couldn't read the crossings-out? He practically carved words into the page, you could read the indentations no matter how much ink went over them. Bless his heart. Keen tactical thinker, but a little slow on stuff that an inveterate dissembler would notice.

But enough of this. I had other work to do. The Merchant's Guild was breathing down my neck more than usual, bills were piling up, and you can't 'ow, my leg' out of debt.

Nevertheless, I found myself digging out a piece of the same paper I'd used for the first fake letter, and I put pen to page in record time.

_My dear Commander, it was a delight to hear from you personally! I could never have expected it. Varric is such a dear, but he does tend to keep his friends to himself. **Protective** of them, I mean to say. Are the two of you very close? Does he still pull his hair back at the top? You must tell me everything, darling. Your busy military schedule permitting, naturally._

_I confess that when Varric told me precisely what poem had caught your interest and brought me up in conversation, I was awestruck. Publishing my work has not exactly been a public-spirited labor, you know! I'm a layabout by nature, and I use words to live lives I cannot grasp. I write my verses selfishly, churlishly, compulsively—but never, I'm ashamed to say, with the aim of interpersonal connection in mind. Had I known but sooner, I might have done! I felt so refreshed, invigorated even, to hear from someone who enjoyed my silly scribblings and took them to heart. Perhaps I have been a recluse too long, a mystery man, shrouded from my readers out of fear. Perhaps I will emerge into the sun, someday. I am a bloody cloud-gazer, after all, it's what we do. I'll get a strip of sunburn right across my nose, Commander, and I shall blame you **entirely** for it, mark my words._

_In the meantime, I appreciate your willingness to allow me my little bit of mystery regarding my whereabouts. One must have some secrets._

_I find myself inspired by your cause. I've heard about it before now, of course—it's the talk of Thedas!—but I'd never considered personally involving myself in any way. I know myself, Commander, and I am by nature a coward; I would much prefer that the world never change, that I forever had a glass of wine to hand, a velvet cushion to prop my feet on, peeled grapes, the works. I'm spoiled and vain, and one mustn't ever mix spoiled things with good ones, lest they **all** go off. But perhaps I can be of use, at a distance? If not for your broadsheet (such a diverting idea! I cannot wait to receive one), then perhaps, ser, only to you._

_I've scrawled up a little something for you (attached). Do tell me what you think, would you? No matter how scathing the critique, I can endure it, cross my heart._

_Please tell our Varric, though of course I'll tell him myself, that I'm so glad that his intervention allowed us the opportunity to meet—in so much as one can meet through a letter. I wish you the very best and it would be immensely gratifying to hear from you once again, about anything and everything, if you ever find a moment and you think of me._

_All the very best from your freshly-minted friend,_

_Arch_

A clean page, and the poem flowed out of my pen like I'd already thought it all out.

 _When I was young I loved the songs_  
_Of heroes and of righted wrongs,_  
_Of dashing figures brave and true_  
_Who battled, beat back, slashed and slew;_  
_Those dauntless women, fearless men_  
_Who sought to bring us peace again_  
_Through application here and there_  
_Of sword and bow and spell and snare;_  
_I still recall each verse and note_  
_And all the ne'er-do-wells they smote,_  
_Sung down the years by rough, by sweet,_  
_And children playing in the street._

 _Though at the time I was inspired,_  
_I know now how it works: The tired_  
_Warrior may win the fight,_  
_May best a dragon or the Blight,_  
_But when he's fed and healed and rested_  
_He is the one who has been bested—_  
_Without a sword, his sore and haggard_  
_Heart is hollow as a scabbard._

 _Now when I see the troops returning_  
_I am beset by fears and yearning,_  
_Yearning that somehow my verses_  
_Might alleviate the curses_  
_Carried home by scars and visions_  
_And pocket-sized personal prisons._  
_When I was young I loved the songs_  
_Of heroes and of righted wrongs,_  
_But now to war I've been inured_  
_And rather wish I hadn't heard._

Before I could think twice about it, I stacked the pages together, folded them up small, and stuck them under the wobbly leg of my chair for the rest of the evening. Later, when I went to bed, I took it with me and slammed it in a drawer a couple of times, held it almost too close over a candle so a brown spot began to wick across the paper, spilled expensive aftershave on the corner, and put it in my boot for the night.

As I fell asleep, I decided Arch Tarstrive was relocating to Orlais.

Messages could arrive faster from there.


	4. The Hand-Off, The Surprise, and The Recommendation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple little con, just to lay the groundwork for some ideas taking shape, and nobody gets hurt.  
> Well, it's not like anybody was going to get hurt anyway, right? But I hadn't expected it to take this turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this universe cole obliquely discusses poetry with solas, rather than their canonical discussions of media involving spirits/demons/angels. this chapter's Vague References ft _yevgeny onegin_ by alexander pushkin, _the love song of j. alfred prufrock_ by t.s. eliot, and _song of myself_ by walt whitman, all of which give me Gay Pains

The Inquisitor and the Chargers went off to do some damned reckless dragon-related meddling on the Storm Coast, and came back bright-eyed and breathless with tales about who had somersaulted backwards over some rocks while throwing a knife into a dragon's ear hole, who had discovered the spooky old cave, and who (Tiny, it was Tiny) had laid down for a long time against the slain dragon's side, staring into its lifeless face and repeating that it was beautiful.

Glad I had to take a rain check on _that_ mission. That shit's weird.

My bones had set. The limp was getting better, and (more gradually) so was the state of literacy among Skyhold's junior population. Solas came down to the press room one morning to help quiz the kids on their letters, and had started occasionally popping in to give Niblet some pointers on the tracings to be engraved. A _lot_ of people had started popping in over those next couple of weeks, actually. Dorian was a regular visitor, bringing sweeties for all the kids and a congratulatory pocket knife for Spike when she'd learned the whole alphabet back to front; Josephine came to see me once or twice and found herself fascinated with how quickly Egon (now Kipper) rattled off entire practice paragraphs backwards and Sparky's hands flew along the ranks of the letter box, picking and stacking press blocks with a grace and fluidity he hadn't yet mastered when it came to his juggling or magic.

Things were going surprisingly well that day in particular, and my good mood was crowned by running into Curly on the way back from lunch.

'Oh! Varric—' he caught my eye and waved me over across the puddled courtyard, to where a few scouts had just been hovering around with clipboards. He dug something out of his pocket and handed it to me. 'A letter for your poet friend. If you might send it along, I'd be grateful, I feel like I haven't had an instant to stop and breathe today.'

'Sure, no problem,' I said.

'By the way, what would you prefer be done if I have a reply to send and you've gone out on a lengthy mission? Leave it in your office for when you return, I'd wager.'

I shrugged. 'Nah, send it to wait for me at camp with the rest of the messages, and I'll send it along from there. No reason for you to wait around for weeks.'

'Very well. Thank you, again.' He was already skimming the second page of the reports he'd been delivered.

'Now shoo, back to commanding,' I said, though clearly he had. 'I won't take any more of your time.'

And five minutes later I had my feet propped up on my desk, reading the letter. A nice little spot of entertainment before leaving tomorrow with the Inquisitor and Co. on my first outing in a long time, to look into what was going on with this Fairbanks guy in the Graves.

_Mr Tarstrive, ~~I was so~~ ~~I was gratified~~ I was so pleased to receive your letter. I know general practice is to reply to things in the order in which they were written about, but I must say before anything else: Your poem was perfect, and tore at my heart. I feel as if you have a window into my own life, somehow. Is that foolish? ~~It sounds so terribly foolish.~~_

_I'm not accustomed to striking awe in anyone, so I'm surprised to hear you say so._

_But why do you describe yourself in such a way? I doubt that a vain, spoilt coward of a man could make something so beautiful. Enjoying luxurious things does not make one spoilt by default, I don't think. To know that you are inspired by our cause lifts my spirits; I would say that is far more than merely "useful". ~~Usefulness is not the only~~ I often find myself falling into the trap—for it is a trap!—of acting solely out of pragmatism, and others (our Lady Ambassador, for one) have reminded me time and again that comforts are what keep an army strong-willed and stout-hearted, more so than fiery words about honor and duty. A rousing song, good drink, pleasurable company... these are things I would forget about in the staggering importance of the task before us. And yet, thankfully, wiser minds than mine prevail: Skyhold has its tavern, its feast-days, its share of music and sport and fine things, and those whose affection might be afforded of an hour to those so inclined. These are what give a man a feeling of stability even as the world cracks beneath his feet. I think that is why finding your book of verses was such a beacon in the darkness that was service under Knight-Commander Meredith. I would not trade that respite for anything, though I know it to be selfish._

_I regret to say Varric and I aren't close, no. I thought at one time that perhaps we might become so, but forces beyond my ken intervened, as they so often do. He does still pull his hair back at the top. ~~I've often wondered what it might look like if~~_

_Varric seems hesitant to speak of your relationship, and I fear I have put my foot in my mouth about it. I do hope that whatever transpired between you, that you let him down gently. ~~He deserves a little gentleness, I think.~~_

_I've read his novels. Not all of them—I haven't had the time, these days—but some. They show him to be quite a different person than he appears in the flesh. But do you know something, Mr Tarstrive? Perhaps this has happened so many times in your literary circles as to be a joke, or perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to this manner of conversation, but the only time I've spoken to him at length of late has been about one of his books, and it became an argument! A silly little argument. Passions run high about one's creative works, I suppose. And in fairness, I **was** sharp. (I fear my capacity for "scathing critique" was vented at him rather than yourself.) Do you know some way I could make it up to him? I owe him more than that._

_I take full responsibility for your eventual sunburn._

_~~I wonder if I might ask y~~ _

_~~Would it be importunate to inquire~~ _

_Warm wishes,  
Commander Cullen_

Right. Okay.

Fine. This was fine.

I turned the first page back over and read the letter again.

Okay. I could handle this. Everything was fine. I'd lied my way out of worse situations before.

But...

He actually _liked_ Tarstrive. Really liked him. Opened up to him like some kind of gruff, prickly Fereldan flower.

I'd _assumed_ Curly would think Tarstrive was insufferable! The plan was I'd catch the look on Curly's face when I brought up the name, I'd have a good laugh by myself later, write a couple more letters that'd get under his skin a little, and that would be that. A simple little con, just to lay the groundwork for some ideas taking shape, and nobody gets hurt.

Well, it's not like anybody was going to get hurt anyway, right? But I hadn't expected it to take this turn.

I mean, shit, I'd drawn from people Curly could barely stand, barely got along with, or whom he would have found _deeply_ suspect if they'd ever met. Arch Tarstrive was an aging nonconformist with a few good ideas in him, that was all. Arch Tarstrive was a flamboyant, foppish, overly-personal little shit who insinuated himself into other people's business and might seriously tick off the sort of man that could command the forces of the Inquisition and _why hadn't it worked?_

Now that I had a reply, I had to work from it. I was actually excited about that.

Huh.

There were slapping noises from the press room, which could have meant a number of things. I got up and poked my head out the office door. I'd expected the kids to be smacking each other with the rubber brayers, but the noise was from Spike and Sparky doing a strange, rhythmic clapping pattern back and forth to each other and chanting in singsong unison, like some kind of surreal summoning ritual.

 _The Champion of Kirkwall_  
_Is named after a hawk!_  
_They say Hawke likes the ladies_  
_But also fancies—_

'Whoa, there!' I said, drowning them out. 'Who taught you that?'

' _Nobody_ ,' said Sparky, unable to meet my eyes. Spike was looking innocently up at the ceiling as if she hadn't been involved.

Snowdrop was happy to squeal on everyone, seeing it as a sort of personal duty. 'Gunilla make it up, ser, few weeks back, ser! An' I said to her, I said, Gunilla you ort to go an' ask Ser Hawke if it's _proper_ to have a rhyme like that, an' Ser Hawke had a big laugh and got watery eyes, ser, so we reckon it's all right.'

I reckoned it was, too, but it was the principle of the thing. 'How about you save that one for only when Hawke is around, all right?'

Spike shrugged, and everyone returned to looking busy with their reading and writing and chiseling. But by the time I was back in my office they were at it again, only in the kind of stage-whisper that kids don't think anyone over the age of fifteen can decipher.

 _Cremisius Aclassi,_  
_His smile is full of charm!_  
_They say he's got a weapon_  
_That's longer than his_  
_ARM-y troops are marching_  
_All down the mountain pass_  
_They do their training drills on_  
_Commander Cullen's—_

I left them to it.

* * *

**Traveling...**

**Traveling...**

**Traveling...**

Blackwall: I've got that damned skipping rope chant about you stuck in my head.

Dorian: Ah, yes, isn't it exciting? Oral tradition taking shape and all! Though not _quite_ what one assumes when imagining one will be remembered in legend and song.

Iron Bull: Ooh! I haven't heard that one. Will you do it for us?

Dorian: I'm afraid even I'm not enough of a showman to perform it as it was intended to be heard. Also, we haven't got any ropes.

* * *

Cole: He wasn't disappointed in him, he was jealous of _her_.

Solas: Sometimes one cannot see the truth of one's feelings.

Cole: But he _shot_ him. He didn't have to shoot him.

Solas: It would have dishonored them both to back out of the duel. Either way, it was the end of their friendship.

Cole: He could have talked to him, instead. He could have said nice things about his poems.

Solas: That would have been a better way, yes.

* * *

Iron Bull: Hey, Varric. Will I end up in The Herald?

Sera: [snorts] Ooer!

Me: We'll see, Tiny. Everyone's been asking if they're going to show up in it.

Iron Bull: When I do, can I pose for the portrait? I want to _fllllex_ for it.

Me: I've spent nearly a month training these kids _not_ to carve giant pairs of tits into the engraving plates, Tiny. Don't undermine my operation.

* * *

Dorian: I've just realized, all the rhymes I learned as a child were mnemonics for academic purposes. You know, things like remembering the Archons in order—'I Bought Many Irregularly Shaped Plums, Here, Take One To My Sister And...'

Blackwall: You've led a joyless life. No wonder you're a drinker.

* * *

Cassandra: [a little stiffly] I am impressed by your apprentice, Varric.

Me: Ah, you're talking to me now...? I don't have an apprentice, Seeker.

Cassandra: I mean the Hopworth boy, Jerrit.

Me: Oh, Niblet. I wouldn't call it apprenticeship so much as keeping him out of trouble.

Cassandra: He is learning to read and write, to draw pictures for adventure stories, and to inspire people. I see no one _else_ teaching him these things.

* * *

Solas: It's good to get out for a while. The quiet vastness of the forest is a relief.

Me: Been feeling stir-crazy?

Solas: [crossly] The children come in when I am busy with my research and sing puerile songs at me.

Me: That's not so bad.

Solas: I'm afraid it is.

Me: Could be worse! Have they gotten 'Down in Ferelden in a Great Big Bog' stuck in your head yet?

Solas: No, I'm not familiar with it.

Me: Trust me, no one _wants_ to be familiar with it.

* * *

Vivienne: Cole, to whom were you referring earlier? You said, 'He's looking for somewhere warm, looking up at the arch.'

Me: Remember what we talked about, Kid.

Cole: Right. [deep breath] That's personal and private to someone and I'm going to keep their confidence.

Vivienne: [lightly] Very well.

Cole: You're... not going to keep asking?

Vivienne: No, dear, I was only curious. Personal doesn't always mean important.

* * *

Solas: Dorian, what casting techniques have you been teaching young Algar?

Dorian: I didn't encourage him to set the fence on fire, if that's what you mean.

Solas: I observed that he used the Martynas Demi-Sidewinder Maneuver to stop an apple from rolling off a table.

Dorian: [laughs in surprise] _Really?_ My word. Whatever made you think I'd taught him to do that?

Solas: It seemed entirely too performative a choice of stavework to _not_ have learned it from you.

* * *

Cassandra: I heard about what happened with the dragon, Bull.

Iron Bull: Ahhh, yeah. What a fight! The Inquisitor been telling you stories?

Cassandra: I think it's very... You show a remarkable gentleness with dragons, even when you must fight them to the death. You never exploit their natural weaknesses in battle.

Iron Bull: Maybe what other people see as weakness, I see as a strength they haven't chosen to use yet.

* * *

Cole: Smoothed by long fingers, asleep... tired... or it malingers, stretched on the floor.

Sera: Anybody know what he's going on about? Anybody? [long pause] Yeah, me neither.

* * *

Blackwall: Dorian... about what I said earlier.

Dorian: Which thing? The snide comment about my mustache, the snide comment about my accent, or the—

Blackwall: Not my place to make fun of what you choose to do of an evening.

Dorian: [peering at him in disbelief] Are you... Maker, are you actually making an attempt to Be Supportive Of My Life Choices?

Blackwall: Look, never mind.

* * *

Iron Bull: So when we get the special ropes, I swing to the center and alternate with you while Dorian bounces up and down in the middle?

Sera: Right.

Iron Bull: And nobody gets tangled together?

Sera: Only if you're a rubbishy _garbage_ man at keeping up a good rhythm and pacing yourself! I won't _do_ it with you if you're rubbish.

Dorian: [trying not to laugh] Well said. Nor will I!

* * *

Cole: He contradicts himself.

Solas: Very well, then he contradicts himself.

Cole: How large does a person have to be to hold multitudes?

Solas: I suppose that depends upon how he holds them.

* * *

Iron Bull: Ah, crap. Giants.

Vivienne: They don't appear to have noticed us. Perhaps if we were to—

Sera: [firing a hail of arrows, chanting at the top of her voice] DOWN IN FERELDEN IN A GREAT BIG BOG—

Me: Y'know, Buttercup, there's something called 'basic self-preservation' that you might want to look into!

Iron Bull: I'll take the first two, you guys handle the third and the brontos.

* * *

Blackwall: Will you stop _smirking_ at me like that? I wasn't trying to get on your good side.

Dorian: No, no, it's cute. A little pathetic, as gestures go, but almost sweet of you.

Blackwall: I don't care if you think it's sweet.

Dorian: Denial is almost as good as an admission! I think you protest too much.

Blackwall: I couldn't care less about your opinion if I tried.

Dorian: Admit it, you were thinking of me.

Blackwall: I think about you as little as I possibly can.

Dorian: [sarcastically] Maybe that's why you're a drinker.

* * *

Vivienne: Varric, darling, is it true that you've recently inherited a harpsichordette?

Me: Among other dubiously useful things. Do you play?

Vivienne: No, but I've heard a rumor that the lieutenant of the Chargers plays rather well, isn't that right, Bull?

Iron Bull: Oh yeah, that's that little plinky Orlesian instrument you set on a tabletop, right? One time we had to clear squatters out of this noble's summer house, and Krem just sat down at the thing and played 'Danny Boy' for an hour until they decided to leave peacefully.

Vivienne: I'm not terribly familiar with that one.

Iron Bull: [dryly] I am.

* * *

Solas: I thought you would like to know, Varric—Miss Sweetwater has become the target of a number of mean-spirited remarks.

Me: From whom?

Solas: Some of the older children among the city elves that came to us in these past weeks. They've been calling her 'Flatty No-Mates'. It troubles her.

Me: Flatty No-Mates?

Iron Bull: [grunts irritably] You don't call somebody a name with that kind of crispy consonants if your heart's in the right place.

Solas: Miss Sweetwater is of… mixed parentage. It can be nearly impossible to tell, unless one is also an elf. But when one _is..._

Me: Yeah, no kidding. I assume you told them to knock it off?

Solas: I provided Miss Sweetwater with a formidable itching powder, and a suggestion as to how to apply it to the offending parties without being detected as the perpetrator.

Me: Good man.

* * *

_My friend, you may reply to my disorderly babble in whatever manner you please. Break from tradition, live a little! I would never judge you for going against my expectations, as I have very few._

We'd made camp near some crumbling old pillars. The Inquisitor was deep in conversation with the requisitions officer, checking things off of a list and making frustrated gestures; Chuckles and Buttercup were having a disagreement over something hidden in her pack; Iron Lady had gone to massage expensive oils into her scalp or whatever it was she did when alone in her tent in the middle of the day. Some people were eating, or checking the maps, or arm-wrestling each other.

_I don't believe my awe to be misplaced, but you **should** know that I'm one of those sorts of fellows who spots a leaf twirling in a circle in the eddy of the gutter and feels a distinct clutch of emotion deep in my chest. I think it comes with being a poet. When the Maker was handing out souls, he gave poets the ones that couldn't differentiate between coincidence and divinely-orchestrated serendipity._

_My vanity is one of my **finer** qualities, I'll have you know. I'd be lost without it! Whom else will fawn over me if I don't fawn over myself? Perhaps you should do a bit of self-admiration of your own, darling._

_Varric neglected to mention that Skyhold has... how did you put it? I had your letter right in front of me, I swear... ah, yes, "those whose affection might be afforded" &c. Are you much of a lad for negotiated affection, yourself?_

That'd make Curly do that thing where he looks off to one side and rubs the back of his neck. I could picture it perfectly, and did so for a long moment before I continued the paragraph.

_I'm certain you needn't be. While the Inquisition no doubt employs the finest whores this side of the Free Marches, it seems silly for coin to change hands when there must surely be a line of ladies (and gentlemen?) queued up at your door. How do you get anything done, Commander? If I had a profile like yours, I'd stay in bed until midday, ringing a little bell to summon lover after lover. You are **clearly** a more scrupulous man than I—or you keep an obliging fellow under your desk! If there's ever a vacancy, you'll keep me in the loop, won't you?_

That should get him squirming in his chair a bit. Curly was so easily abashed, it was almost too good to be true. You'd think that someone who's seen so much of the grimier realities of life wouldn't have a blush reflex like that, but I was enjoying poking it.

I tapped the end of my pen against my chin as I thought.

_A beacon in the darkness? Cullen, you flatter me. I think highly enough of myself as it is. And while I have not yet secured that sunburn, a pleased flush of color is looking rather a lot like one, just now._

_Our Varric is in perpetual need of a boot to the arse, especially when it comes to how he approaches anyone with a rank, title, or even sufficiently large office. He tends to cower, doesn't he, poor chap. But I've been working on him, don't you worry. It may not seem so, but even the most hard-boiled cynic still now and again needs a gentle word of advice from a seasoned man of the world. I do wish he'd take the advice to wear his hair down, but I fear that will continue to prove itself a lost cause. You'll hardly believe this, but when it's not wrenched back in a strip of leather, there's actually a sweet little curve of a wave that falls across his brow. Oh, he'd never let anyone see, of course. He thinks it makes him look **soft**. But I've known him practically since the egg, and have seen him in all states, even the ones where his hair falls in his face. If you ever get the opportunity... Well! Keep me informed, if you ever catch a glimpse._

_Of course he's hesitant to discuss how close a friend I am, dear, he works for the **Herald of Andraste**. I mean to say, I've been branded a dangerous anarchist and distributor of flagrantly seditious materials. Not something one wants to shout about when part of the Saving-the-World set. And naturally the Chant Mums have decried my erotic writings for years, saying they can influence the vulnerable to allow wickedness into the heart. I was **so** pleased to hear that—it's precisely the point of those poems, after all. Purity cannot exist without that which is a little tarnished, a little coarse. Temptation is not what defines a man, but how much of it he decides to allow himself to pursue. A wholly good man can be turned to sin because he is static and rigid in his approach; but a rough soul who has learned that he must grasp and appreciate every passing mote of goodness so it doesn't escape him, **that** is the fellow I admire most. Wickedness is not the same as evil._

One of my favorite things about writing these letters—aside from the obvious enjoyment to be had from getting the commander to laugh shyly and loosen up now and then—was the fact that I could be just as direct about my opinions on the state of the world as I was in Arch's poetry. I didn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing, offending some important contact, or making things difficult for myself. I could just... exist. I could be honest.

"Lying My Way to the Truth", now there's a potential title for this memoir.

_Fighting with you about semantics means he's let you get far enough into his good graces to point out his own bullshit. That's good news, trust me! Perhaps, if you feel compelled to make it up to him, accept an invitation to play cards sometime. It's more about the bonding than the gambling._

_Speaking of our Varric, he was sweet enough to send me a drawing of you, because I was ever so curious, and I was positively shocked. **Shocked,** I tell you! How has he been keeping you under his hat for so long? (Not that he's a hat person. He looks dreadful in them.)_

_But oh, that noble profile, those mysterious eyes! I was delighted. I shall treasure it always. As I read your letters, I can imagine how your lips would shape the words._

**_Have_ ** _you read any of my banned works, by the by? I could send you a few volumes. Smut can be a fantastic relief when one's working life is so fraught with peril. Do you ever find the time to relax? Do me a favor: next you have the opportunity, have a nice, long, leisurely... **nap**. Sprawl out, kick the blankets every which way, prop yourself up on more pillows than you require, and just sink into yourself for a while. It puts a shine on the tired soul._

_I continue to be an unsolicited advisor and terrible, **terrible** influence,_

I grinned as I signed it with a flourish.

_Your Archie_


	5. The Proof, The Promise, and The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Start your presses!'  
> The chamber immediately filled with noise.

I felt like I nearly had enough for the first run: lots of short articles and news from the front lines, a pretty good copy of the drawing I'd done for Cullen (for Cullen's _nephew_ , I mean), a small portrait of the Inquisitor, and a scene out of a little story I'd written up about how to identify different kinds of demons. I'd sent Dollface around the keep to ask people what their favorite jokes and riddles were, and we'd voted on the best ones and which ones to save for later printings; Niblet had had the idea to split up riddles between editions, so you had to wait for the next one to be sure of the answer. Tiny had supplied us with his famous rice pudding recipe (at least he claimed it was famous). Buttercup had a message to the Friends of Red Jenny, which she insisted be stuck crooked in the margins somewhere 'so it don't look all _official_ or nothing'. In a surprising show of support (surprised me, anyway), I'd received a heartfelt account of how the Inquisition was improving the lives of mages that society had abandoned, straight from the desk of Iron Lady herself. And there was, of course, the "Hurrah for the Inquisition!" stuff that Josephine had wanted in the first place.

And then there were the poems. I put in the one Cullen requested, with a short preliminary note in Arch's voice, encouraging people to allow themselves to admit to their feelings of fear but not to be overcome by them. A second poem followed.

There'd been an argument, you see. More like a fight, if I'm being honest—most plain old arguments don't involve being picked up by the collar and shaken like a rat, or chased around a table. But since nobody would assume me and Tarstrive were the same person, it felt safe to vent it into the press and get it out of my system.

 _She seeks what I can never give her_  
_(Though all she seems to do is ask);_  
_She tests each arrow in my quiver_  
_And finds each lacking in its task;_  
_My enemies: don't emulate her!_  
_I'd rather battle than debate her,_  
_I'd rather be locked in the Deep_  
_And lose ten lifetimes' worth of sleep_  
_Than entertain her in her ire,_  
_For in foul villainy resigned_  
_I scheme, I plot and I conspire_  
_To every evil, in her mind,_  
_And protests fail when given voices—_  
_But I'd be bored with other choices._

I rearranged the labeled, thumbnail-sized clippings of paper for the final time, and gummed them into place on a regular sheet of parchment. It was done. That was it.

We were ready to proof.

'Man the presses!' I announced to the room as I emerged from my office. I pinned the format guide to the canvas wall (which had earned a few unauthorized doodles over the past couple of weeks), just to be sure it wouldn't be lost in the shuffle. Everyone came up to have a look at it. 'Do you have your proofs?'

'Yes, ser!' Snowdrop said brightly. She'd been assigned the title of Thing Keeper-Tracker-Of, because she was an orderly sort of kid and enjoyed tying bows to things so they were easy to spot.

I climbed up on a box so I could oversee the room better. Some guys of the dwarven persuasion would resent standing on a box, but honestly I don't give a damn. If it works, it works. 'Everything properly aligned? No spelling errors? Kipper, you're our top speller. Everything looking good?'

'Yes, ser!'

'Sparky, how are your fingers? Nice and flexible?'

'And speedy, ser!'

'Good! Dollface, you ready to read?'

'At your word, ser!'

'Fantastic!' I clapped my hands once and rubbed them together. 'Everyone stop calling me "ser", it's weird. Ready on my signal?'

'Ready!' they all hollered at me, much louder than was necessary, but I couldn't blame them for the excitement. We'd been working on this shit for ages.

They were good kids. Good- _ish_. And damn it, they were starting to grow on me, like some kind of parasitic mold that stole things and asked invasive personal questions.

'Start your presses!'

The chamber immediately filled with noise.

Niblet inked a brayer, coated the engraved floatwood panel of the portrait of the Inquisitor, and placed it face-up on the platform of the picture press, lined up where he'd been told it ought to be, followed in short order by the other two engravings. Chopper stood on a chair and shook out the wide sheet of thin paper across the inked plates, the mass of it making a sound like high, cheap theatrical lightning, and then Chopper got down off the chair and turned the winch that lowered the presser arm.

'One,' everyone counted aloud, 'two, three, _raise the lever!'_

Chopper turned the winch again, and the presser arm raised its big flat weight once more. Kipper darted over and peeled the paper away from the inked panels so he could pin it up to dry on the line until the next step was ready. A couple of the kids gasped at how crisply the pictures had come out. This was better than our old friendly doodle-eyes, looking off to the right on the big canvas—this really _did_ feel like magic.

All the while, Dollface was doing her recitation, Sparky's fingers a blur to and from the letter box.

'Full stop, S, E, M, I, T space G, N, I, L—'

Blocks clicked together, sounding like pieces against a chessboard, tiny letters lined up in their pre-measured compartments, blank spaces blocked off for where the engravings would already be.

'—B, U, O, R, T space E, S, E, H, T space N, I space—'

At the next table, Kipper did the reading for Spike, who was not quite as fast as Sparky and had shorter arms, so she did the headlines.

' _Interrobang!_ Ell-ell ee haitch _space!_ Ee haitch tee _space!_ Tee ey haitch dublew _space! Colon!_ Ess en owe em ee dee! _SQUARE UP, JUSTIFY, NEXT—'_

Chopper went over to watch the others at their tasks, waiting to turn the next winch. Meanwhile, Niblet was gently waving the pinned-up broadsheet to and fro on its line, so the ink of the engravings would dry faster, _shush, shush, shush._ Snowdrop stood at the head of the letter press, handing the readers the next pages as they finished each section.

'Done!' said Spike after a few minutes, stepping back with her hands up.

We all watched in wonder as Sparky seemed to speed up still further, despite knowing he had a lot more words to do and that he needn't keep up with her. Press blocks seemed at times to leap into his grasp before he'd fully reached for them, as if drawn there by the magnetism of his determination to be quick about it.

At last, 'Done!'

Niblet took the sheet off the line as Kipper and Dollface inked the brayers and rolled the letters. Sheet carefully lined up and laid out, Chopper turned the mighty crank, down, down went the press weight.

'One, two, three,' everyone chanted, much softer now, breathless with anticipation, _'raise the lever!'_

Up went the presser arm. For a moment, no one moved. Then, very gingerly, Spike and Sparky each took a corner of the sheet and together they peeled it from the press.

It was beautiful.

'We did it!' Chopper crowed, punching the air. ' _And_ I didn't break anything!'

'It's all so clean-looking,' said Snowdrop with wonder, as Dollface pinned the sheet back on the line. 'I wish I knew what it said just by _looking_ at it.'

I squeezed her shoulder and handed her a congratulatory candied pear. 'You will soon, kiddo. I promise.'

The Herald—or at least its first proof—was officially in business.

* * *

The Herald—the one that walks around and saves the world—looked at it for a long time.

'I'm... this is...'

The kids all seemed to hold their breaths. I did too, if I'm honest.

The Inquisitor smiled round at the ragged group of us. 'I'm so proud of all of you. This is _wonderful_.' Then, in typical pragmatic fashion, 'So how are we going to fold it?'

'We hadn't figured that out just yet,' I said reassuringly, 'but we will. In the meantime, who wants cake?'

As predicted, everyone. I'd had one made ahead of time, with frosting and everything, and had the presence of mind to have it cut into slices so nobody would squabble over portions. The kids grabbed pieces in their bare hands, ignoring the plates I'd brought out with it, and the Inquisitor made a little gesture to get my attention.

'Varric, do you have a second?'

We went to my office as the kids pigged out. 'I have longer than that cake does, that's for sure. What's up?'

'I wondered if you might do me a sort of... favor.'

Uh oh. 'A favor? Anything for you. Unless it involves caves.' Again. 'No more caves.'

'No more, I promised.' There was a long moment while the Inquisitor peered curiously at the books behind their shimmering barriers. 'Solas still hasn't convinced you to part with them, huh?'

'Over my cold, dead, squishy corpse,' I said, pinching off a bite of my own slice of cake. 'That's not what you're here for, though, is it?'

'No.'

'Spit it out already.'

It all came forth in a rush.

'Cassandra loves _Swords and Shields_ and I caught her reading in the yard and she was _so embarrassed_ but I think you could make up with each other if you could just wring out a short little installment to appease her if that wouldn't be too much of a strain on your time.'

'Whoa, slow down, tiger, ever heard of the common comma? No? Take a breath.' I considered what had been said while I got around a few more bites of cake. 'All right, I'll do it.'

Maker, the Inquisitor's expression sometimes just lights up the whole place. No wonder people were already writing songs about it. 'Really? Oh, thank you. I've felt awful since you fought, I don't know what I was _thinking_ , I just—'

I laughed. 'It's not like you shoved us into it.'

'No, but I got in the middle.'

'It was good to have somebody there, trust me. Otherwise I'd probably be stuck on the end of Seeker's sword like a cube of cheese on a toothpick.'

'I'm glad you're not.'

'Same here.'

A beat.

'Think I could cadge a piece of cake?'

And that, for the moment, was that.

* * *

'I'm going to kill her,' I told Dorian that night in the tavern.

'Who? Why?' Dorian looked like he was mentally totting up how many _hers_ we knew between us. 'You know I support you, old chap, but one must be specific when it comes to wanton slaughter.'

' _Seeker_ ,' I said. 'I'm going to put so many buckets of romantic _bullshit_ into this chapter that she'll keel over and die of happiness.'

'Oh! I was expecting something more... murder,' Dorian admitted, gesturing with his glass of wine. 'But do go on.'

'I am a bit miffed at Inquisitor Twinkles, if I'm being honest.'

'When are you ever?' Dorian flagged down the laconic barman and stood me another round. 'What could possibly have miffed you? You love keeping busy, now you're just going to be a little busier.'

'"You love keeping busy"?' I balked, taking a sip of ale. 'Have you even met me? I'd rather lay in bed all day with a book. I'd rather Busy stay at least ten miles from me at all times. Busy means running around and getting my eyebrows fried off by dragonlings—'

'That was _one time_ ,' Dorian interrupted. 'You act like it happens every week.'

'—and Busy means getting rained on, and sleeted— _slat_ on, and being near horses, and... and _sweating,_ ' I finished lamely.

Dorian gave me a flat look. 'Sweating? _That's_ the final affront to reason?'

'You Northerners don't get it.'

'It's perfectly natural,' Dorian pointed out. 'It cools the body.'

'Not _my_ body,' I retorted. 'And you probably do it too much to notice how awful it really is. It's second nature to you hot-country people.'

'"You hot-country people",' Dorian repeated, fighting down a grin.

'I bet you're all just... all of Tevinter is slippery and gritty all the time.'

'You should write travel brochures. Foreigners will be thronging the streets in no time, reviving our flagging economy and basking in the warm glow of racial epithets.'

'All day long, stewing in your own fluids—'

'I can't even understand you anymore,' Dorian said loftily. 'You're speaking words, and yet somehow they escape my notice. Is that Varric Tethras _mouthing_ something at me, I ask myself? Wherefore this mime routine? What could he _possibly_ be attempting to convey?'

'All right, all right.' I took a long drink. 'But Andraste's dimpled ass, I don't want to start being known as the guy who gives free books to people.'

'A single moment of weakness need not define your life,' said Dorian.

'You been hanging around the pop-up Chantry lately or something? Cut the platitudes, Sparkler, I'm a grown-ass dwarf.'

'All I'm saying,' Dorian went on, obscuring his expression by turning to look down the length of the bar in the other direction, possibly around behind the stairs, 'is that you've only offered to write a book for someone this _one time_.'

'Wrong.'

Dorian whipped round again. 'You agreed to write her something _else_ , as well? I thought you couldn't stand one another.'

'No, not Seeker. Different person.'

'Oh, dear,' said Dorian. 'Is this an "ours was a love for the ages and I swore you a novel in three parts but then we were sundered and I still bear the guilt of my promise unfulfilled" situation?'

I laughed. 'Shit, maybe _you_ should finish the romance serial.'

'No can do, my friend.'

'Why not? I'd pay you to do it. _Handsomely_. Maker, help me out here, Sparkler, I'm suffering my death agonies.'

'A romance of that sort,' said Dorian, 'tends to feature at least one complete and descriptive tumble per publication, even if any further than that fade to black, isn't that right?'

'Well, yeah, generally speaking. People pay for the smut, and keep coming back for future chapters if the plot hooks them.'

'No can do,' Dorian repeated.

'It's because of the men thing, isn't it,' I said.

Dorian splayed a hand across his chest. 'Varric, you know I would do _anything_ for you, save for this single, solitary task.'

'Just say it,' I teased him. 'You're completely baffled.'

He huffed. 'I don't believe I understand you, dwarf.'

'You don't know anything about what goes on under a skirt, do you, Sparkler?'

'Spurious lies!' he protested. 'Anyone can wear a skirt, can't they? I was in amateur theatrics up at the Academy, you know. I often wore the skirt.' He took a delicate sip of his wine and added, 'I _was_ the prettiest.'

'You're shitting me.'

'It's all true! I played the eponymous _Bride of Abramuccio_ to a full house. I was showered with roses.'

I considered this. 'You wouldn't know a cunt if it bit you, huh.'

Dorian aspirated some of his wine and coughed, glaring at me. 'My, but you're a foul little man!'

'You know I'm right.'

He drew himself up, trying to look dignified and not laugh at the same time. It was a difficult balance. 'I confess a certain lack of familiarity with the lady piece, yes.'

' _The lady_ —you're something else,' I cracked up. 'Fine, you're off the hook this time.'

'I'd happily make it up to you by assisting with your other literary burdens.'

'Nah.' I waved it away. 'Pretty sure you wouldn't want to do that one, either. And it's, uh. It's kind of personal.'

Dorian rested his chin in his hands and gave me a look of rapt attention, batting his eyelashes. 'Go onnnnn.'

I sighed. 'You can't tell _anyone_ , ever. Swear on your grave.'

'Ooh, you look so uncomfortable. I'll swear on anything you like as long as you tell me what it is.'

'On your grave, Sparkler.'

He did some sort of complicated Northern-looking gesture over his chest. 'On my grave. On my mother's grave. On the very small mole on sweet Andraste's left tit. On the Iron Bull's big, thick, swinging—'

'Watch it,' I said.

'— _greataxe_ ,' he finished. 'You have a filthy, _filthy_ mind, Master Tethras.'

I pushed my empty flagon to the back edge of the bar top, left a tip for Cabot, and gestured for Dorian to follow me outside.

Once we were in the darkened yard, where only a few scattered people were sitting around and talking at such an advanced hour, Dorian hopped up on the ledge and sat.

'I'm delighted to be taken into your confidence, truly,' said Dorian. 'Everyone knows such dreadful things about me already, but you've been something of a mystery man. I hardly know anything with which to incriminate you.'

I gave him a flat look. 'Aside from the whole "let red lyrium into the world" debacle? I'm pure as the driven snow.'

'Fine, keep your secrets. I shall simply sit here decoratively until you relent.'

I snorted. 'Right.'

'You clearly want to confess whatever it is, Varric, otherwise you never would have brought it up.' He swung his feet a little where they dangled off the wall. 'I'm at home with that tactic, myself. You're not the only emotionally shuttered charmer on the team, you know.'

I showed him both hands in surrender. 'You got me.' I let my hands drop, and sat beside him. 'Look, I'm...'

'Hopelessly in love with me?' Dorian suggested.

'No.'

'Hopelessly in love with Cassandra?'

'Maker's balls, no.'

'Upon further reflection, hopelessly in love with me after all?'

I rolled my eyes.

'Can't blame me for taking another stab at it,' Dorian said with a good-natured shrug. 'I wilt under the strain of no one adoring me utterly, you know. Now, what's the big secret?'

'If you'll stop talking about yourself long enough for me to spit it out, I'll tell you.'

Dorian didn't reply, waited for me to open my mouth to speak, and interrupted, grinning, 'Another great thing about _me_ is—' I whacked him on the arm, and he subsided into laughter. 'Mercy, mercy! You have the floor. Say on.'

I did say on. I told him how and why I'd invented Arch Tarstrive, and how it had recently and quickly gotten out of hand. As promised, Dorian listened attentively, nodding and gasping and cursing in all the right places. I do love a good audience.

'It's like this guy was just _waiting_ in there, fully formed, you know? Just waiting to pop out all over Curly.'

'Ooer,' said Dorian with a camp smirk.

'And now I can't stop doing it.' I scuffed the heels of my boots against the wall, irritated with myself. 'All I want to do is write more in this... character's voice, I guess. It's like I'm able to talk to Curly for the first time in forever.'

'I never knew you two were close before,' Dorian said, idly picking weeds out from between the stones and braiding the stems together. 'Seems an unlikely duo.'

'We weren't exactly bosom chums, unless you count nearly dying on a boat twice.'

Dorian frowned, then it occurred to him. 'Oh, on the crossing from Kirkwall. Nasty weather, that season.'

'Yeah, don't remind me.' I blew out a sigh like I couldn't wait to be rid of it. 'This is stupid. Why can't I just talk to the guy, if I apparently want to so much? I can talk to _anybody_. That's how I meet so many people and get into so much trouble.'

Dorian stopped his braiding to look up at the stars for a moment. It was the first truly clear night in a long while. 'Do you see those six that are sort of linked up together?'

'Focus, Sparkler.'

'It's relevant, I promise.' He pointed, and I followed his finger. 'In Tevinter we reckon that makes the shape of an ink bottle. It's part of a greater grouping of constellations colloquially named the Desk of the Maker. There have been duels over what color the ink must be.'

I shook my head in disbelief. 'The more I learn about Tevinter, the more it sounds like an old boys' club of murderous academics who'd strangle each other over a spelling mistake.'

'Oh, that happens,' said Dorian. 'Death by improper citation, as well. It's a known problem. Though we call that sort of thing suicide, in Tevinter, of course.'

'No kidding? I always thought "professional suicide" was hyperbole.'

'Well,' said Dorian, with the air of one having always wanted to tell someone about this, 'have you ever seen someone do something incredibly stupid and thought to yourself, "That fellow's going to get himself killed!"? It's like that, only a sort of overall cultural awareness that someone, quite soon, is going to send a fatal message.' He sounded a bit wistful. 'Ah, and I'm pining for the hot-country again. Forgive me.'

'So why the look-at-the-stars thing?' I asked. 'Still not in love with you, Sparkler.'

He elbowed me in a matey way. 'You'll come around, they always do.' I snorted, and he continued: 'In the Free Marches, I believe that little blotch of stars makes up half of the constellation called the Broken Heart, yes?' And he gestured, like that explained everything.

I narrowed my eyes at him in the moonlight. 'Just how much wine did you have?'

Dorian scoffed. 'I _mean_ that perhaps you're writing because you can't be open about something in your sad little broken dwarf heart.'

'I'm not hopelessly in love with Curly, either,' I said quickly.

'More for me,' Dorian teased. 'But lots of things go on in the heart, Varric. Ink seems to be your conduit for feelings.'

'Yeah, well.' I picked at a loose bit of mortar until it crumbled off. 'It'd be nice if that weren't the case.'

'Fuck feelings?' he suggested.

'Fuck feelings,' I agreed.

Dorian had made a little circlet with the braided-together weeds and dropped it onto my head. 'Give a man a mask, and he will tell you the truth.'

The crown had flopped over one eye, and I blew at it uselessly. 'That some more of your wholesome Tevinter hearth wisdom?'

'No, that's something I just made up. But give it time,' he said, hopping down from the wall. 'Give it time.'


	6. The First Edition, The Serial, and The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I sat down with my back to the door, breathing hard. I turned the pages over and read them again, cursing softly, biting my lip.

Reader, do you have any idea how long it takes to manually print two hundred copies of a broadsheet? Oh, you don't? Well, thank the Maker you don't, because _I do_. And because this is my attempt at an honest memoir, I will tell you how long it takes to manually print two hundred copies of a broadsheet: A shit ton of time.

But we did it. Not just the kids, obviously, since I think there are some new laws about that in a few places. The kids did the first hundred over the course of a couple of days only because they insisted that it was their Sworn Duty to the Inquisition, and while everybody was sore and grouchy by the end of it (having all taken turns on the presser arm), I gotta say, we had fun. After that? Some of the troops, who were still on healing leave but were up and about enough to be doing something for the cause, pitched in and let the kids instruct them on everything, how much ink to put in the brayer trays, how to line up the paper properly in one go so nothing smeared by adjusting it, and Chopper greatly enjoyed being The Guy Who Knows Best How The Winch Works, Here, Let Me Show You Again, And You Have To Go Hrrrurgh! Proper Loudly When You Do It This Time.

A few of the slightly-smudged reject copies had already started circulating Skyhold itself, to great success—or, at least, I considered it a great success that no one had piled them up out at the end of the bridge and set fire to them in protest. The Inquisitor clipped out one of the portraits, filled it in with watercolors and was exceedingly proud of it.

Ruffles was more pleased than I'd seen her in a while.

'Varric, you have _outdone_ yourself.'

'Last time I heard that it was because I really fu—' I can't curse in front of Ruffles, it's not sporting, 'fff...fouled something up.'

'I mean you have outdone yourself in the other way,' she clarified. 'A nice way. Oh, I loved your drawing of Commander Cullen, I was pleased to finally see.'

'Know where I could find a Mabari, by any chance?'

She gave me a _you know I can't do that_ smile before she went on. 'You paint such a shining picture of us all!'

'The Inquisitor's been doing the painting around here, lately,' I joked.

'And it endears the Herald to us all the more. The, ah.' She paused. 'The walking-around one.'

'Gotcha.'

'And yet,' she went on, 'despite the glowing descriptions of our people, there is _realism_ , there is the weight of truth to it. It's not too optimistic to be believable, but neither is it dour. A delicate balance to have achieved.'

'Sparky's an aspiring juggler, so we're pretty good as far as balancing goes.'

She smiled a little. 'Scout Harding will be managing the first round of deliveries, as she leads the forward scouts to investigate the situation in Crestwood and establish a foothold for us there. I believe Ser Hawke's contact is in the area?'

I nodded. 'So I'm told. Whole lot of corpses, too, apparently.'

'It seems to be a growing trend, these days,' she sighed. 'That reminds me, I have a letter to write to Lady Aspira Avoirdupois about her late husband's mercantile connections...'

I left her to it and went out to sit in the hall to write. The kids had been given the week off since printing finished on the first broadsheet, but with assignments to make note of any anecdotes from people around Skyhold so we could start sorting through material for the second edition. Maker, the ink was hardly dry, and I was already planning the second one. But I'm like that when I get on a project, save for the occasional 'throw it into the street to be trampled' hiatus.

For my part, I had a chapter of overwrought romance to write. I wanted to get it done before we set off to Crestwood, because I had a bad feeling about that little jaunt. No good could come of all that water and dead stuff just hanging around, and if I was going to be traveling with Seeker I preferred for her not to be glaring daggers at me from six inches away as we rode through swampy roads on the back of the supply cart. I'd told Dorian this chapter was going to be killer—not that _he_ was ever going to read it, mind you; he was vocally of the opinion that _Swords & Shields_ was better off as kindling than reading material. And I didn't blame him. But I'd convinced myself that going over-the-top was the best thing for the situation, and now I had to live up to it.

I say stuff to back myself into a corner, have you noticed? It's a problem.

Might as well start with a bang.

_The Knight-Captain moaned, arching closer to his touch. It had been so long, and she had been so hard-hearted... out of fear, perhaps even out of habit. But now, to act just once with abandon, caring only for each moment and not for any potential consequences, was dizzying._

_"Don't stop!" she cried, and even in the throes of passion her voice did not lose the ring of command. No man could hear her speak so and not obey—especially not when she had her thighs wrapped around him. "Yes, just there—!"_

_"Maker, you're gorgeous like this," her lover murmured, kissing her neck as their bodies moved together in their scorching dance. His stubble prickled at her sensitive skin, but she loved it as much as the subtle growl that rasped his words, the calloused hands that touched her so sweetly. "Run away with me. Leave this blasted city once and for all, you'll want for nothing."_

_She knew he was telling the truth. But right now, she didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think at all; all she wanted was him, and she had him. Oh, she **had** him._

The edge of a shadow fell over the page.

_"Please," she said, nails leaving half-moon impressions on his back where she clung to him, "please, I'm going to come, yes, yes, Commander—_

'Am I interrupting?'

I'm experienced enough with sudden surprises to not do something cliché like snap a nib when I'm startled, but it was a close thing. 'Curly!' I covered the last word I'd written so he couldn't see it.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, averting his eyes from the page I'd been working on. 'If you're busy, I'll—'

'No, no, it's fine. I should think over where to go next, anyway.'

Curly tilted his head to one side, not to try to read what I'd been writing, but in thoughtfulness. 'Difficult passage?'

Keep it together, Tethras. 'Somebody just...' I scrambled for a euphemism, 'died.' I noticed a neatly-folded, rather thick letter in his other hand, sealed with wax and a signet impression. Thank the Maker, a segue! 'Something of mine end up in your in-tray?'

'Hm? Oh, no, this is, ah. Well.' His oratory powers seemed to be flagging, today. 'I still have no idea where to send a letter to Mr Tarstrive. His missives arrive unmarked, and he's voiced his preference to remain in hiding for the time being.'

'Tricky bastard. Best to leave it with me like the other ones.'

Cullen gave me a long, assessing look. I thought for sure he was going to call me a liar, but then, 'I understand that you must keep his whereabouts a secret.'

What? 'Right. Good.'

'You do seem to have friends who have found it necessary to... lie low, in these turbulent times. I don't fault you for your loyalties.'

'Thanks for understanding. I'll be sure he gets the message.'

We sort of hung there at a loose end for a moment, looking at each other.

'Varric—'

'Yeah?'

'I... thank you. For introducing us.'

I thought about how Curly was right here, following through on my—on _Arch's_ request to convey that same gratitude. Not that I didn't think Curly was grateful on his own, but it was weirdly nice to hear it after I'd (basically) asked for it, not expecting it would actually happen.

I gave him a little bow, as best I could while seated with a table in front of me. 'You're welcome, Commander. I guess you two are getting along?'

'I suppose we are.' He was smiling, just a little, small enough that he might not even notice he was doing it, and there was this look in his eyes. It tugged at something in my chest, something that had twanged and reached out in the dark when the lantern tipped over and the sea screamed vengeance around us.

Maker's _breath_.

* * *

The press room was deserted, the kids much preferring to spend their non-scholarly day outdoors, running after the cats and doing whatever it is kids do when they're not studying or destroying the furniture. I went into my office, shut the door and put my back against it, breaking the wax seal with a slide of my finger and unfolding the letter. It was padded out with a broadsheet, which I tossed in the general direction of my desk, already reading.

_Arch (or may I call you Archie, since you now sign off with it?),_

_The first edition of The Herald has been printed, and I have enclosed a copy. Thank you again for contributing some of your writing to us—the new poem reminded me of someone I work with._

_Varric has done a remarkable job with the paper, and has been teaching children how to read and write along the way. I confess I didn't know he had it in him. Is that unkind of me? I hardly know him, but what I do know of him has shown me a rather closed person, always ready with wit but keeping his gentler feelings tightly guarded. I cannot blame him, of course. He has endured so much, as many of us have. I do agree, Varric is protective of his friends, though I do **wonder** about his friends. It's hardly my place to do so. I do not mean that I suspect them ~~(or you)~~ , simply that I wonder how someone so unwilling to reveal his thoughts (beyond complaints about the weather) has grown close to so many disparate individuals. But again, it's none of my business._

_It's a relief to hear that you have few expectations of me. I feel a fool even writing that down! But it's nice, knowing I needn't impress you, that I have no reason to inspire obedience and no need to give direction. I can write what I think, without fear of censure, a fear that often troubles me in other areas of my life. To read one of your letters is a bright spot in my day, and I am thankful for them. After the first one I didn't think we'd genuinely get along, as you seem to be the sort of person who tends not to like me. Yet you did, and we continue. ~~I cannot fathom what you see~~_

_I'm not inclined toward self-admiration, and would not even know where to begin. Not to say that I am not proud of my accomplishments, but that's not the same as admiring. Perhaps if I were to look to people I admire and draw similarities between them and myself...? You're the expert._

_Must you always tease me? Yes, Skyhold has several fine whores. They need work as much as carpenters and smiths, after all, and I know they can be of comfort. I assume Varric neglected to mention because he's not really a whoring sort of man, to my knowledge. He'd rather gamble his coin or use it on drink. ~~Not that there's anything wr~~ Nor have I gone in for their services, myself, though a colleague who shall remain nameless has said that it might "cheer me up a little." Tell me, do I seem like a gloomy person to you? I'm only so sternly focused because the task at hand requires it._

_All that's under my desk is a few dust-dogs and my own legs. Why would anyone want to sit under there? Bit cramped and dark, and boring. Wouldn't an obliging fellow (as you refer to this hypothetical person) be far **more** obliging if he were comfortable? On a cushion, at least, if not on a bed. My own bedroom is above my office, up a ladder; it's not as if no one could sneak up there and wait, but everyone I work with regards the ladder as if its rungs are coated with poison or might grow fangs and snap at them if they ever attempted to climb it. The only person who's gone up there to have a look round is the Inquisitor—not for any personal reason, but because the Inquisitor will climb any ladder on offer, even if there's nothing particularly interesting at the top. Upon descending, I got a curious look and was asked if I really slept up there. While it's not grand, and there's a good deal of the roof missing, I like it that way. It's my little retreat from the world, and I often write my letters to you there, rather than at my desk. I'm a much less serious man when I'm not surrounded by paperwork._

_I've tried to picture Varric as you describe, with a soft lock of wavy hair over his brow, and I can't quite manage it. What side does he part it on? Does he brush it out of the way when it falls in his eyes as he writes? I wouldn't say that he cowers when faced with authority, but he does move around a lot, and lies as easy as breathing. (Have you ever heard of the Paragon Edwid Thighbiter? No? Nor indeed has anyone else.) But it does make me smile. Most often, he approaches me as if he expects that I'm coated in poison or about to grow fangs, myself! Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I wish he wasn't. We've shared a few moments of clarity and understanding, before. I wonder what might have become of things if there had but been time._

_I'm inclined to agree with you about the difference between evil and wickedness, but my Chantry background gives rise to automatic thoughts: wickedness must surely **lead** to evil, debauchery to depravity, etc etc., and even if I don't truly believe that in my heart of hearts, I've found myself to be the sort of person who errs on the side of avoiding wickedness altogether, just in case. I wonder if perhaps there's a sort of primer for people who grew up very devout? By no means have I turned from my faith, even when it has been so thoroughly shaken in recent months, but I am more aware than anyone that my beliefs have sequestered me from some of the richness of life. And no, before you run away with the mental image that I'm all afumble with inexperience, I assure you that isn't the case. I simply don't pursue dalliances that might be... outside of the common experience. Been years since I pursued a dalliance at all, really. It might be kindest to simply lend you my profile, since you like it so much, so that you may be beset by a queue of suitors and call them to you with your little bell. Maker knows I haven't got anyone to ring in._

_The only published work of yours that I've read was the volume I mentioned. ~~I would~~ ~~If you think~~ I confess I'm curious how your poetic style translates into erotic verse. Would you send me some?_

_On your (terrible, terrible) advice, after I received your last letter I did have a nice, long, leisurely... nap. Is it wrong to admit that I thought of you? I don't have a visual concept of you as I might if we had met in person, but there are little imagined glimpses. The way you write takes shape in my mind into how you must speak, and that thought led to the idea of being an Obliging Fellow. Is there room under your own desk? What sort of sweet words might you say?_

_~~Yours,~~ _

_Hoping to hear from you soon,_

_Cullen_

_PS. If I've got the wrong end of the stick, please feel free to metaphorically whack me behind the knees with it. I'd entirely understand._

I sat down with my back to the door, breathing hard. I turned the pages over and read them again, cursing softly, biting my lip.

I'd wanted to needle him, not win him over. I'd selfishly—churlishly, compulsively—wanted a worm of doubt to creep in, make him think about things he probably wasn't thinking about at all (because why would he? the fucking world was ending!), make him get a clue that I was still kind of low-level background pissed off about him clamming up after we'd had A Moment and I thought I'd found someone I could admit shit to about the fucking _darkness_ , all right? I wanted to needle him. I admit that. It wasn't good of me to do that. I'm not a good person. I know that. I've always known that.

_Fuck._

I'd only wanted to embarrass him a little, damn it. Not...

(My heart was thudding in my throat, my pulse was thudding somewhere else, and I had creased the pages of his letter with how tight I was holding it.)

Not _this_.

* * *

I slept on it (badly) and decided that I was being an idiot.

What was I, if not a storyteller? So he'd fallen for a story, so what? That was generally what I aimed for.

And it wouldn't have been fair to leave him hanging. That's how I justified it to myself, at least. How I explained it away even while denying what I was doing, how I felt. What I wanted.

_Sweet Cullen,_

_Though you are not around to hear my voice_  
_It is your name I whisper 'gainst the night,_  
_Though you are miles hence, it is your touch_  
_That coaxes cries from me._

 _And though I cannot hold you, I would stroke_  
_The gentle crown of curls upon your brow,_  
_To run my fingers through each coil of gold_  
_And coax a sigh from thee._

 _My thoughts are reaching out to take your hands,_  
_To take them in my own, to kiss your mouth!_  
_A scroll is long enough to reach the heart_  
_And ink temptation flame._

 _Feel now my lips against your own, the warmth_  
_That passes now between us, you and I._  
_Though you are not around to hear my voice,_  
_I'm whispering your name._

_**Thoroughly** yours,_

_Archie_

* * *

I threw myself into that damn installment of _Swords & Shields_. I burned off my frustration at myself with fight scene after sex scene after fight scene, piling on the angst and cliffhangers until I'd gone on for nearly fifty pages front and back and decided I needed to stop before I drove the sodding plot into the ground.

I spent a day on a cover. I spent a day _not_ writing with my off-hand and with little performative curlicues on the vowels amid an otherwise slack, angular script. I spent a day and well into the night on the cover, actually. I embossed it by hand, down to the Knight-Captain's freckles. I drove an awl through the stack of pages and stitched sinew stitches well into the wee hours of the morning—and I'm pretty sure they're called the wee hours because if you've made yourself stay up that late, you forget basic things like when the last time you ate was, or when you took a piss—and I picked some of the finest marbled Orlesian vellum I had for the end-papers, and I brushed on the glue and smoothed out the bubbles, and propped it up just close enough and just far enough away from the fire so that the glue would set quickly without rippling the finish. And by morning I had a book, and I did not have a letter to mash in the door or dab with cologne or cause to be stamped underfoot by goats. I had a book, and that was all.

I'd kept my promise.

The Inquisitor spotted me in the hall as I struggled to down some coffee and get myself back among the land of the daylight people. And the Inquisitor spotted the book on the table.

'Varric! It's ready?'

'Yep.'

'You look tired.'

'All part of the authorial process.' I puffed my cheeks out in a sigh, hooking my thumbs in my belt. 'So, that's that, huh? Longest apology I've ever had to give.'

'It'll be worth it, I promise. Come on!'

' _What?_ You want to give it to her _now?'_ I didn't know if there was enough coffee in the world to get me through that.

'Better to just get it over with, huh? Then you can stop worrying.'

And it did work out all right, really. Seeker was civil— _more_ than civil—all the way to Crestwood. And Maker, Crestwood was a long, disheartening slog if I've ever been through one. I hate people. Have I mentioned that? I really, really hate people.

I hate what we do to each other. More than anything.

But we met up with Hawke (which was always a weight off my mind), and the Warden contact we'd been promised. We went out into the desert, and met some stupid asshole binding Wardens to demons, and we kicked some ass until he ran away. And we plotted and planned, and we stormed a damn fortress together.

And one of us didn't come back.


	7. Mourning, Sobering, Persevering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't have to look at it, might not even notice. I didn't know what I'd do if he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be ready 2 cry

_In the chasm of the morning_   
_In the aching of my head_   
_I relive the lively evenings_   
_Spent before my friend was dead._

_In the mist that licks the window,_   
_In the smoke that chokes the air,_   
_I'm remembering your laughter_   
_Back before you weren't there._

_I recall my old reluctance,_   
_Thinking only time would tell,_   
_Doubting you until I realized_   
_I would follow you to Hell._

_There are things I think to tell you_   
_I have nowhere to release;_   
_Even in your death you test me_   
_And deny me any peace._

* * *

I slept. I wrote. I slept.

* * *

_As the reckoning approaches_   
_I must measure what is mine,_   
_I must sit down and determine_   
_When and how to draw the line,_   
_What it is I want recorded,_   
_What it is I want erased,_   
_How my treasures should be gifted_   
_Or conveniently misplaced._

_Who should bear my story's burden?_   
_Should I bury it, instead?_   
_(Will the world go on existing_   
_So it someday could be read?)_   
_Who would want my notes and trifles_   
_And my personal effects?_   
_Would my legacy be chosen_   
_By my fears and my defects?_

_I'm a very damaged person;_   
_My good qualities are few._   
_Will my actions have eclipsed them—_   
_What I did and didn't do?_   
_But my friends are falling daily,_   
_Or at least that seems to be._   
_Soon I'll be the friend that's fallen—_   
_How will they remember me?_

_I will never have a statue;_   
_Things are better off this way._   
_I'm unfit for Memories and so_   
_I only live today,_   
_But today is brief. Who knows just when_   
_The final bell will chime?_   
_I am running out of paper._   
_I am running out of time._

* * *

I slept. I rose. I wrote.

All I could do was write. Ink was my conduit, and I bled myself until I had nothing left.

I wrote to Cullen.

I crept into his office when I knew he was out, and left the letter on his desk, stuck under the edge of the blotter like an afterthought.

He didn't have to look at it, might not even notice. I didn't know what I'd do if he did.

_Cullen, brave Cullen. I write this knowing it may not reach you in time to be of any aid, but I can but hope. Varric has told me what happened._

_You need not speak of it unless you wish to. Beyond the letter you hold at this moment, we need not broach the subject ever again, if that would be best. But oh, Cullen. My heart goes out to you, and to those you hold dear to you who have felt the shock and pain of what transpired there. To see the Wardens have fallen so far is a blow to us all, for in so many ages past we have had to trust them with our futures, with our **everything**. Even in our own lifetimes, we have had to turn to them, to lean on them more than any of us had feared might be necessary. Your erstwhile Order has fared as badly, or worse, so I have gathered. I cannot begin to fathom what you must be feeling. My heart is with you. My prayers are with you. Andraste watches us all, guiding us with her gentle hand. Though we may only feel the sting of our trials, she is there. I promise you she is there._

_Do not hide yourself away, my friend. I know we have not corresponded long, but in such times as these fast friends are often firmest; I've known my fair share of people I never would have thought I could **stand** , much less value and cherish, but Fate threw they and I together and we have remained loyal ever since, even unto death. Especially unto death. Know that those who see your struggle now would be there for you, to ease your pain however they can, so that you might lift each other up from sorrow. Or if the pain cannot be eased, at least the company may serve as a distraction. I hope, also, that this letter might do the same. That I might be with you in my meager way. Let pragmatism rot, my dear, and seek comfort wherever it may be had. Do not lose faith. Do not let the strength I see in you falter. And by Andraste, **do not let those blighted fuckers win.**_

_Would that I could be at your side, to carry this burden with you, to offer respite! Never doubt that you have done what was within your power to do, and no further than this can be expected or demanded of you, ever. You have not fallen short simply because you could not prevent disaster. You are one man. One very strong, very good man, for whom I feel no less than the greatest warmth and pride. Hold that strength like a precious pearl in your fist, Cullen. Don't let it slip away. Not now, not ever._

_I am yours,_

_Archie_

I went out onto the battlements and sat in the cold wind. Summer was starting to unfold here and there down below in the rest of the world, but not here. Snow still sat like a shroud on the mountains. Did you know that in Orlais, they don't wear black to mourn people? They wear white.

They wear fucking white.

* * *

_Drafty garret rooms and poor light,_   
_I return to you now as ever._   
_Low lamp, long beams, comfort to the eyes,_   
_Low-slung boards like the cradle_   
_Or the hangman's cart, rock me to my rest._   
_Corners chipping as the walls_   
_Lean and lean to be closer_   
_(They're cold, too)—_   
_Roof tiles slipping to the floor_   
_As they try to reach closer_   
_(How long has it been since anyone touched them?)—_   
_Wind clawing along every stone,_   
_Leaves meandering in through every gap,_   
_Ladder rungs splintering underfoot_   
_(No one taught them how to hold you,_   
_No one taught you to be held)—_   
_Doors warped tight in their frames_   
_So every hinge cries out_   
_(How else could they tell you?)—_   
_Drafty garret rooms and poor light,_   
_I return to you now as ever._   
_Chill wind through the arrow slits_   
_Can't shift me from where I stand_   
_(How else will you know that I need you?)_

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

I'd been sleeping in my little flask-shaped library office since we returned to Skyhold. It felt safer than a room with windows, changeable light, nights shifting to days. I wanted the shadows to stay where I put them.

'What,' I groaned.

'I've been told I should knock on doors if someone's behind them and they're closed.'

I sighed. 'Come in, Kid.' He was probably already in my head, anyway.

I was used to Cole just sort of materializing, but he had to use door handles now. It seemed about as weird to him as popping up out of nowhere had seemed to everyone else. 'Hullo,' he said, and sat down next to where I lay on a bedroll on the floor, flanked by shelves like guards.

'Hey,' I said back. I was aware of his giant hat moving around as he turned his head.

'This is a nice place. Close, close, like the passage where Mother takes him during parties when he cries, he doesn't like people but she says that's all right, some people aren't worth liking. Bartrand likes the attention but he doesn't, he wants to stay here with her.'

I breathed out slowly, scrunching my eyes shut for a moment. I knew I should probably tell him off for that shit, for jabbing his pale little fingers into the old pain when the new pain was already smothering me, but it was my responsibility to teach him how to be a person. I was going to teach him better than I'd been taught.

Let him talk. Some people needed to talk. Maker knows I'm one of them, most of the time. I talk and talk so that I don't have to _say_ anything.

'You're hurting,' he said.

I swallowed, tried to think of some way to explain the breadth and depth of everything. But I realized I didn't need to.

'Yeah,' was all I said.

The Kid fidgeted with his sleeves, such a characteristic gesture that if I hadn't felt like I was about to sink through the floor in despair, I would have hugged him.

'Let me—' he started, then stopped. 'Should I... do you _want_ me to help?'

He was learning. Finally, I'd done something right. I'd done something good.

'Maybe a little,' I said, resisting the urge to hide my face. I felt stupid, lying there on the floor with him sitting cobbler-legs beside me, but I knew he didn't see anything stupid about it at all. He saw a hurt-shaped hole in his friend that he might cover with his hand. 'Yeah,' I said, 'just for a while.'

'I can't make you forget anymore,' Cole said haltingly, picking at his fingers. 'People don't do that. If I made you forget, that would take it away from you, and you may want to keep it.'

I didn't want to forget. That would be worse. I wanted to just... _escape_. I didn't want to _be_ there, not right now. I didn't want to die, exactly, just not be myself. To not be Varric fucking Tethras anymore.

'Your words in another man's mouth, dancing, slanting from the wrong hand as if you dropped them, singing. He's helping him. Helping heal, listening, allowing. He could help you.'

I let out a hollow laugh, just a noise, no feeling. 'Which "he" do you mean, Kid?'

Cole did something I'd never seen him do before, except when he'd been stabbing someone at the same time to put them out of their misery: he touched my shoulder. Solid, reassuring.

'Both.'


	8. The Soft Way, The Hard Way, and The Worst Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just a story, I told myself. Something to lift his spirits, give him a boost, help me feel like I'm doing something other than moping.  
> But I wished it wasn't a story at all.

There was a thunk as Dorian set a bottle on my table in the hall.

'You've had a wash, I gather.'

I looked up from the letter I was writing to Daisy, grateful for an excuse to take a break. 'So have you.'

'I've brought you this.' He indicated the bottle as if it were a fabulous prize.

I prodded it. 'It's empty.'

Dorian took a deep breath, as if about to launch into a bit he'd prepared in advance, but then deflated marginally and said, 'Yes.' A beat. 'I drank it, you see.'

'I do see that, yes.'

'I thought perhaps _more_ drink was not the best thing to bring as a token of sympathy.'

I peered at the label. 'You just wanted the good stuff to yourself.'

That got him to smile a little more. 'You caught me! I'm a terrible liar.'

'Nah, I'm just better at it than you. What's up? Aside from the bottom of your glass last night, obviously.'

'I... hmm.' He spun round a chair and sat straddling it, arms crossed over the back. 'I've been sent on a mission of mercy by our dear Inquisitor. The general idea is "get everyone out of the castle for a while and run around", which is _dreadful_. I voiced my entirely reasonable concerns, but to no avail. We've been recruited to run around and,' he gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward as if about to deliver a dramatic revelation in a bad play, _'gather herbs.'_

I put a hand over my mouth in one position, then another. 'No!'

'I know! I protested vociferously, but my cries would not be heard. I begged. I groveled. But alas, despite my gravest objections, my loyalty compels me to obey. You _know_ how obliging I am.'

'Practically a doormat,' I said. 'Did anyone else get roped into this little botanical search-and-rescue?'

'The whole set!' said Dorian, throwing up his hands.

'Not _everybody_?'

'I know! I, too, am aghast! I scarcely credited it, myself! But we are sworn to serve the needs of the Inquisition. Who would dare say "nay, ser!" when our fearless leader decrees that we've got to find royal bloody elfroot? Not I.'

'Nor I,' I agreed, getting up. I could finish my correspondence later. _Later_. Let it wait one more day. Go out and damn it, run around and pick flowers, because the Herald of Andraste's trying to cheer us all up. A million more important things to do, and cheering-up was first on the agenda. Go outside, you curmudgeonly old bastard.

Get a stripe of sunburn across your nose.

'You know,' said Dorian as we went down to the stables to meet up with the party, 'I don't think I've even _seen_ royal elfroot before. What the devil does it look like?'

'I think it's got purple on it,' I said. 'Or is that rashvine nettle? Shit, I don't know. I'm here because I shoot bad guys.'

Dorian tapped steepled fingers together beneath his chin, smiling with a flash of teeth. 'Perhaps we'll encounter some Venatori and we can do that _thing_ we discussed!'

'Which thing we discussed?' I said, skirting around those two guys who were always arguing in the lower yard. 'We discuss and awful lot of things.'

'The thing where I launch a semipermeable bubble barrier above you, you hop up into the air, I suspend you there using Godel's second principle of levitational dissonance while the enemy looks on in slack-jawed bafflement, and then you shoot them through the eye.'

I wagged a finger at him. 'Never agreed to that one, Sparkler. The day I let you toss me up in the air is the day I've lost all dignity.'

'It's not _tossing you_ ,' Dorian protested as we picked mounts for the trek down into the valley, now lush and green in the light of spring. 'You're _hopping_.'

'No hopping.'

'Not even—'

'No.' I took a quick step back as Dorian's horse, who was notoriously prissy about personal space, gave me a dirty look. 'But I'll still shoot 'em in the eye. Deal?'

'You drive a hard bargain, but I suppose it will have to do.'

Master Dennet strolled out from the barn where he'd been talking to Blackwall and held something out to me. 'Flask of coffee for the road?'

I took it. 'What's the catch?'

He clapped me on the back. 'No catch. Saw what you wrote about my girl Seanna's racing courses in your paper, how the Herald had to show proper skill in the saddle before we'd give you lot the go-ahead as an organization. How the Inquisition exists to serve the people, and all. Did my heart proud to read her name in print!' He winked. 'Though I think you embellished the challenge of it a trifle much.'

'That would be my terrible sense of direction rearing its ugly head.'

'Buck up,' said Dennet. 'You know where you're going. Safe travels.'

I looked down at the flask in my hand, then back up at his retreating back. 'Thanks, I guess.'

I finally opened the flask when we were about a quarter of an hour down the pass. The warmth hit me just right when compared with the still-chilly air, and it made me smile. It was a nice little moment of comfort I hadn't expected. And I'd been _suspicious_.

Maybe I should take Arch's advice, myself.

* * *

Continuing the cheering-up efforts, I got everybody in on a game of Wicked Grace when we returned that night. There was a lot of toasting throughout, some of them sentimental, some of them downright ridiculous; when it was Cullen's turn, he looked round at us all, then looked at me, and offered a toast to absent friends, to the words they have written on our hearts.

* * *

_My Archie,_ the next reply began.

_I can't thank you enough for your last letter. You always seem to know just what I need to hear. I actually didn't find it until a couple of days ago—fool courier shoved it **under** the blotter, Maker knows why—but it was what I needed in that precise moment. Do you think Fate can intercede on a matter so simple as when a man opens a letter? I knew a young mage at the Circle where I first served, he could draw a single card from the Deck of Ghislain and it would directly correspond to a question that had been asked. This felt a bit like that. I had questioned myself into a deep pit, the sides too steep to climb, and your words floated down to me like a gilded ladder, leading me to solid ground once more._

_Things are busy, of course. The busier I am, the less I am able to dwell on what has failed. More are joining our ranks every day, and the keep fills up with pilgrims and those seeking refuge. Nobles as well, though I wish they'd stay well out of the way and just send us supplies, instead, damn them. For every minor lord's extravagant repast, we might feed a dozen children. The people who arrive in masks and coronets are not here for the true heart of the Inquisition, they are here for the banners. They're here to watch our Herald sit on the throne and struggle to weigh life and death for all of us. By contrast, just yesterday one of my soldiers—a pikeman who has served under me since the Inquisition's earliest days— came to me in tears because she had missed a draught of tincture while in the field fighting the Red Templars, and has discovered that she is with child. Do you know what her concern was? That she was now obligated to leave a gap in the front lines. This, while nobles quaff liqueurs and gossip, making sordid wagers on whether the Inquisitor will execute this Poulin woman from Sahrnia._

_Our people, the ones who chose to be with us before there was any hope of glory in it, cleave to our cause so tightly. Maker, I sometimes wish I could ask them wherefore they have such faith in ~~me~~ us. But we must show a unified front, lead by example. I cannot flinch, I **will** not._

_I fear I will read your words of encouragement until the ink at the folds of the page wears away from use._

_~~Would it be too much to a~~ _

_~~Might I~~ _

_If you have it in your heart to craft more verses, my friend, I would welcome them. I care not what of, only by your hand. Anything you offer would be a blessed gift._

_Steadfastly yours,_

_Cullen_

I reread the other letter, the one from before. I let myself think about it, then I let myself stop having to think about it.

I wrote quickly, allowing emotion to mix with the ink.

_Cullen, my favorite Cullen, I reread your words as well! Your previous letter especially—I know you're on the fence about the appeal of wickedness, but I must say: you are a **very** wicked man, putting such delicious ideas into my head. Not to say that those thoughts weren't already there._

_Oh, but is this my damned poet's sentiment flaring up again? Is it foolish of me to desire? Because I do, I cannot help myself. Imagining you imagining me... such a compelling daydream! To discover that (despite not knowing a damned thing about what I look or sound like) you've found a little gem of desire in your heart as well... I am thoroughly seduced._

_I would not stick you under my desk. I would have you in full view, so that every inch of you might be admired and savored, however obliging you may decide to be._

_I've woven another verse for you. If you find that all this suits you, I ask only that you carry me in your heart for a time and think of me when it pleases. If I've misspoken (miswritten?), it would be right for you to toss this into the fire and pretend very strongly that it was all a lovely dream that need not trouble you after you wake._

_Lay down your arms and come to me,_   
_Cast down your shield and blade,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_That harder men forbade,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_That shies away in shame;_   
_Lay down your arms and come to me,_   
_And I will say your name._

_Lay in my arms and come for me,_   
_Though you may be unsure,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_No other did endure,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_No other did embrace;_   
_Lay in my arms and come for me,_   
_That I might see your face._

_Lay down your cards, level with me,_   
_You needn't fear the truth,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_That scribbled out your youth,_   
_I welcome every part of you_   
_That scribbled out your smile;_   
_Lay down your cards, level with me,_   
_And lay with me awhile._

_Yours, yours!_

_Archie_

It's just a story, I told myself. Something to lift his spirits, give him a boost, help me feel like I'm doing something other than moping.

But I wished it wasn't a story at all.

* * *

_My Archie,_

_It does suit me. It suits me better than I could have hoped, or ever would have expected. I feel such a strong link with you, though I can't begin to explain why. You came into my life at just the right moment. I've been making vital changes to myself and my behavior, of late, and it left me vulnerable; I feared that vulnerability, feared it had weakened me, but what it did instead was allow my heart to accept that someone might want me, and might welcome being wanted in return._

_But you know so little of me! My doubt creeps in at the edges of every page. How could what you have seen in these letters alone be enough to inspire your interest? I try not to fret about it, but I find that I have a curious determination to find every instance of wrongdoing or permissiveness in myself and stamp it out. I am plagued with questions, but they are tempered with your tenderness, and with my own desire. I **do** want you. You speak to me so gently, with such compassion (and yes, shameless flirtation). How could I not feel for you?_

_I've started trying my hand at writing verses, myself. They're terrible. Would you like me to send them along?_

_Yours,_

_Cullen_

* * *

_Cullen, my darling, you need not fear. You came into my own life when I needed someone most, someone of your strength of character, your willfulness, your willingness. You appeared when I needed you. I don't speak of it outside of poetry, but I have endured much; finding someone who understands, who has felt the same but whose faith in others still remains, is a remarkable blessing._

_Don't interrogate yourself, there's no need. After all, would your doubts disappear if you could intimidate them into giving you the answers you believe you require? Know only that I want you, that I feel a hitch in my heart whenever I think of you, and knowing you want me in return is intoxicating._

_Please do send along any little thing you've written, I'm ravenous for more of you. I think of you so often, your dark eyes, that slight smile... the way you might murmur encouragement as I touch you, each fresh wave of pleasure gilding your words with the lilt of a moan, or the rasp of a growl to spur me on. More than one evening lately I've found myself unable to fall asleep, so taken with imagining you that I **ache** , and cannot rest until I have come for you. If we ever can be united, I would banish your doubts about my desire for you; it would be obvious._

_Would that I was there to kiss you, to hold you! Damn this war._

_Yours to the point of distraction,_

_Archie_

* * *

_Archie, my own,_

_Would I kneel, unburdened of the need_   
_to give the orders, safe in the knowledge_   
_that I may surrender and still succeed,_   
_lips parted slick to welcome you,_   
_to take as much as I can, to be given all,_   
_to stop my mouth and silence_   
_the doubt that stalks_   
_my heart_

_would I bend low as if in prayer,_   
_pleading,_   
_stretched out before you, around you_   
_to hear you tell me I am wanted, I am good,_   
_to hear you praise me for my pleasure_   
_and for yours,_   
_hard and slick to welcome you,_   
_to fill me and to soothe the soul and make me_   
_your own_

_or would you tell me no, I mustn't bow to you_   
_or anyone, I must allow instead_   
_for you to kneel, my fingers in your hair_   
_as your honeyed words cease and your mouth is_   
_full, instead,_   
_of me_

_would you push me down, gentle, insisting, make certain I stay_   
_pin me by the hips with your own hips_   
_that you might take me into you and take your own time,_   
_taking your own pleasure from me and taking mine in eager_   
_reply_

_or would I feel secure to tell you what I wanted,_   
_unwavering, confident and proud,_   
_a new way to command and to lead us to our victory,_   
_your coy smile and a look_   
_through your lashes, yes ser,_   
_please, ser,_   
_and your service is rewarded tenfold before I am_   
_done with you_

_Arch beneath me or above me, I care not_   
_all that I need is you at all_

* * *

I'd scratched out three whole pages of false starts before I got something going, only to ball it up and throw it across the room a moment later. I kept lapsing out of character, doing the loop of a letter against the pattern I'd established for Arch's penmanship. Nothing clicked. Nothing felt _good enough_.

I noticed a slight figure loitering beyond the crack in the door.

'I see you, Snowdrop.'

She pushed the door open a little farther. 'Are you well, Mr Tethras?' She took in the screwed-up balls of paper on the floor, the ink on my fingers, the harried look. 'Only everyone's here.'

'What?'

'It's time for our lessons,' said Snowdrop. 'We all got together, you see, after all the grown-ups came back from the battle. Algar and Egon was all for not asking you about the paper because you've got to help save people but Be-Thankful said that _we're_ helping save people, too. An' we decided amongst ourselves in a democratic-like voting sort of fashion that we ort to let you rest a fortnight or so an' not trouble you because you were sad an' had Morning Headache only like, _all day long_.'

'I appreciate it,' I said.

She cleared her throat a little, rocking back and forth on her heels in the doorway. 'We was creeping down here all the time you was out traveling on your important missions, ser. Scout Harding is teaching Spike how to shoot people an' she says,' Snowdrop ran out of breath and took another big one, ' _she_ says that they ran entirely out of The Herald in _one week_ , ser, so that's a whole load of people who've got one, but that's not everyone, ser.'

'You don't have to call me ser, kiddo.'

She fiddled with her loose tooth as she chose her words. 'Spike says that we oughtn't call you "boss", ser, however, otherwise we'd have to form a union an' that.'

I clasped my hands and leaned my chin against them, hiding my smile, because she was being so serious and official about it all. 'I see. Very good.' I waved for her to go on with her report.

'We did up a nundred and eight-six new copies of the first edition on our own, ser. When you wasn't in your office.' She looked a little nervous, and added quickly, 'I made certain we didn't make noises when you _was_ in your office, because once I came down in the night when I'd got up for a pee, an' I heard a snore in your office so I said to everyone straightaway next morning, "Look, we've got to bang smart on the door and shout OI HALLO MISTER TETHRAS ARE YOU IN TODAY?? before we do any pressing," an' that was that.'

'Sound judgment,' I said. 'I was right to make you Thing Keeper-Tracker-Of.'

She beamed. Her fidgeted tooth was a little pink from messing with it. 'We've all got loads an' loads of stories an' some jokes for the second edition an' Jerrit's done _quite_ a good drawing of a dragon with Mr The Bull astride it like it were a fat pony, ser.'

'Well,' I said, getting up. 'Sound like we have work to do, don't we, Snowdrop?'

I followed her out into the press room, where Spike and Chopper were throwing an assortment of sharp things at the canvas wall, which (I hadn't paid attention close before, considering the circumstances) was now covered with lots of different but all very simple handwriting, proclaiming to the room in big letters, _fUck Fuck!!!!?!! fuck, shit, balls, BALLS, Maker on The Loo, tittie._ Sparky was juggling two small apples, and was sporting a new hairstyle that looked a bit like Dorian's but a bit more like it was done with a thin jet of flames rather than a barber's shears. Dollface had a frankly enormous hickey on her neck, which someone had drawn on to make it look like a flower, as if that disguised it in any conceivable way. Kipper had his arm in a sling—from sparring very badly, I found out later—but was otherwise cheerful. Niblet was off to one side by himself, leaning so close over a panel of floatwood that his nose was nearly pressed against it, copying out very fine scales.

Damn it, I was starting to be really fond of these weird little monsters.

'All right, everybody, eyes up here!' I climbed onto the box. 'As we all know, there was a big important battle recently, right?'

'A lot of people are sad,' said Chopper. 'And dead.'

'Dead sad,' said Snowdrop. 'You were very sad, weren't you, ser?'

'And _appallingly_ drunk,' said Dollface, as if anyone needed to say it out loud.

'Snozzled,' Sparky joined in.

'Pickled to the eyebrows,' said Kipper.

'Drunker than _Dorian_ ,' Spike added, and sounded like she gave a crap about it, somewhere deep in her little budding-assassin heart.

_'And yet,'_ I raised my voice a bit over the continued litany of synonyms for inebriation, wondering if there was such a thing as _too much_ literacy, 'I'm not anymore, and I'm here, and you're here.'

'I'm glad you're here,' said Niblet. He had a smudge of pencil on his nose. 'I've missed you awfully.'

I ruffled his hair. 'So, shout out ideas if you have them—what helps you feel better when you miss somebody?'

'Eat a cake!'

'Sleep all day so I don't miss them.'

'Sing comic songs very loud but not inside because Mr Solas says that is a Ferocious Bother unto him.'

'I think about what would make them laugh.'

'Sometimes I go to the stable and pat a lovely horse that lives there.'

'I rather like to do sums.'

Everyone stopped and looked at Niblet.

_'Sums?'_ said Dollface.

He didn't know what the fuss was about. 'Yes, I rather like to.'

'Whatever works for you, kiddo. Now let's think about how we can put that into the little sections of the paper, all right? Chopper, go up to the kitchens and ask Miss Gwynedd how to make a cake. Snowdrop, you're going to think of five good ways to help someone fall asleep. Spike, run and ask Solas which of your comic songs is the most Ferocious Bother in the _entire world_ , because we're going to use that one. Kipper, ask everyone what jokes they've collected and pick ten of your favorites. Dollface, I'd like you to do your best drawing of a horse.'

'But I'm not the best drawer!' she said. 'That's Niblet!'

'And I didn't join the Inquisition to pick flowers in the valley on a sunny afternoon, but sometimes, Dollface, we do things because they help people feel good, even if it's not the thing we're best at doing. Anyway, Niblet and I are going to be thinking up a really clever number puzzle, aren't we?' I clapped a couple times. 'Come on, guys, on your feet! You wanna cheer up the world? Let's get moving!'

* * *

That night, afloat on the good cheer and pleasantly-tiredness of being around seven little oddballs all day, I went up to my room and sat by the fire to write a reply to Curly. I told myself I wasn't going to worry about it, I wasn't going to second-guess anymore. If I fucked it up, then I could accept that (I think). But damn it, I'd spent the day feeling valued and loved by my broadsheet misfits, and I'd done what I could to help them feel valued and loved right back, and I wanted to keep the feeling alive. And at the moment, I couldn't think of anyone I wanted to share it with more than with him.

_Cullen—dear, virtuous Cullen, the finest Cullen that can be found!_

_Things feel like they may be going right for a change, in my little corner of this world. Though I know there are trials ahead (Maker, such trials), I find peace in small moments, and laughter. I've devoted much of my time to helping others of late, rather than (as would be my usual preference) sitting with my feet up and nibbling sugared figs._

_I know, I know, it seems such frivolity, this buoyant mood amid the dark clouds that surround us. But I cannot suppress it, not after today. I feel as if a little beam of sunlight has come through to me at last, though I still feel the weight of what has befallen us all. Even so, even the tiniest illumination reminds me that the sun still goes up every morning at its appointed time, even when we cannot see it. Perhaps if I bask in this one little glowing ribbon of light, just for a while every day as I think of you, I can begin cultivating the sunburnt look that is so popular among reclusive poets these days._

_Your poem isn't terrible at all. You are, of course, allowed to have your own opinion, but your opinion is wrong! I adored it. It's beautiful. It made me shiver, and I ache for you all the more. My advice is that we try everything you suggested, and then try it all again, and then try everything we come up with in the meantime, and then refresh our memories of the first round. And then I should very much like it if I could read to you, and kiss you lazily in the firelight, and sleep in your arms._

_Whenever this may reach you, I wish that (the next time you are abed) pleasant dreams and restful sleep are yours. I have never dreamt apart from daydreams, but I hear it can be quite diverting. May untold pleasures greet you in your repose._

_Yours, my beloved, yours,_

_Archie_

I folded it up, wrote the To and From across the back, bashed it under the water jug a few times, dropped it on the pile of my other correspondence and went to bed, telling myself I'd do the rest of the weathering in the morning.

Oh, I had plenty of plans. Good plans. Nigh-habitual plans. I'd carry it around in my pocket, flick a different color of ink on it, tuck in a few crumbs. There was this one chicken in the lower yard that liked to harass the Hero by stealing his papers, so I thought I'd let it have a go at the letter just for the novelty of it. Then I'd set the letter aside for a couple of days and drop it off when I had a moment to spare.

But Fate _does_ seem to intercede when it comes to when a man will read a letter.

'Varric. _Varric_.'

Someone was sitting on the edge of my bed, shaking me by the shoulder.

'Whhf? 'Quiz—?'

'Varric, we've got to go.'

I instantly snapped into alertness, mind's eye full of visions of Haven burning, sickly-green gas billowing under the doors of the Hanged Man, the Kid shouting to me from a hundred yards away beyond the hulking, monstrous shape in the Fade as Hawke stood poised to strike as we fled like fucking _cowards_ —

'Whoa, steady.' The Inquisitor held each of my shoulders, now, looking me in the face. 'Steady.'

'What's our move?' I said, still not entirely in the present. 'What do you need me to do?'

'It's Cassandra, she's got the lead she needed, but we have to go tonight. Leliana's contact said they might be gone by morning, but if we relay the horses we might—'

'Right,' I said, rolling out of the other side of bed, shoving my feet into my waiting boots. 'Kids, somebody tell the kids I'm going, I promised—'

'Krem's on it. I've got to wake Blackwall. We're going to be in close quarters because _of course_ , have you got your knives?'

'Got my knives,' I said, sliding the sheaths onto my belt. _Close quarters._ 'Where's the Kid?'

Paused in the doorway, fingers tight on the frame, 'You know I can't find him in the dark!'

'I'll get him,' I said, digging in a drawer for the flask of poison I used to tip my weapons. 'Why the fuck am I going? You _know_ I'm better at range.'

'Cassandra said you should be there, she said you remind her to be a real Seeker.'

_'What?'_

'Don't ask me, I'm just the one with the flashy hand! We'll be at the stables in ten, we've got road rations and Dennet's saddling the harts. Pray we make it in time, I don't know if we can take another loss right now.'

'You don't have to tell me twice,' I said under my breath. Then, 'Go. I'll catch you up.' The door banged off the hinges. 'And don't forget to _breathe_ now and then!' I hollered down the hall, though I don't think anybody heard.

A few hours later, as a watery dawn broke over Skyhold and we were already miles away on fresher steeds, the messenger who did the rounds at the Herald's Rest and the rooms overlooking the garden knocked on my door, and there was no answer because I wasn't there. The door was off the latch, and she poked her head inside, thinking I must have just strolled down to the kitchen for a mug of coffee, and look, there were a bunch of letters in the outbox on the little half-desk like always (never stops writing, that dwarf!), so she figured she'd gather them up and get them out with the first runners.

Honestly, that would have been fine, that could have been explained away somehow, if it had only been that one thing gone awry. But the truth of it is, it's never _only that one thing_. That's why, as the sun popped the horizon and made its way through the bleary scree of clouds, Commander Cullen found a near-pristine letter from Arch Tarstrive on his desk with the early post.

Even _then_ , I could have thought of something, if it had only been those two things. I've lied my way out of more things in my life than most people have intentionally gotten _into_. I could have spun a little tale and with the right combination of words, all would be forgotten.

But is it ever _only those two things_? I'll tell you a secret: the fuck it ain't. Reader, I encourage you to hearken back to your (doubtless misspent) youth, and tell me true: what's the magic number that always shows up in a story?

One: I was called away;

Two: The messenger took the letter much too soon; and

Three: In my contented, tired-out-from-herding-happy-kids-all-day, utterly fucking _stupid_ preoccupation with flirting openly with someone I had no right to even be in the same room with at this point, I'd written the letter _in my own script_.


	9. The Lies, The Lies, The Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The least I could have done was never write a romantic letter under an assumed name but forget to put my pen in the appropriate hand for the job. But apparently I like to keep busy, me. Dorian got that right. Always on the go, heart pounding a mile a minute, sporting a grimace of abject existential terror. It's the Tethras way.

Here's how it went:

We stormed Caer Oswin at the Seeker's behest. "Stormed" may be putting it a little strongly, seeing as we went in the front door like we owned the place. Things got a little cramped past the foyer, so we killed some cult guys, found a dying guy (who was sent to the Maker to spare his pain because _fuck red lyrium, that's why_ ), killed some more cult guys—shit, they're _everywhere_ , aren't they? cultists these days—ran into a seriously crazy Grandpa Seeker who looked like he was lit from the inside for some reason (never got a straight answer on that one), killed him too. The Seeker—ours, I mean—got a giant book that apparently explains everything about everything.

Apparently some of that everything is: Hey, you know the Tranquil? Sure you do! You know, that creepy thing humans do to mages that sucks their heart out through their forehead and slaps a big sunshine sticker where feelings used to be? The thing where you take a person, right, any ol' person will do so long as they can make fire come out of a fancy stick, you take that person and you turn them into a labor-saving device that does whatever you say and can be exploited to the seven ancient hells and back, on a whim, whenever you want, because who gives a shit, right? They have no capacity for emotion!

That? Yeah, you can undo that whole situation, if you want. Just so's you know. Trust me, once you have feelings, it's nice to keep having them, even when they suck! Just stick 'em back in there. Any time, really. You can get right on that. Might've been useful to know back when, I don't know, some blond idiot with a rebellious cool-guy jacket decided to _stick high explosives up the Maker's ass_ because the big-hats Tranquilized his boyfriend and forgot to send him a sympathy card. All that shit could have been prevented if your average well-meaning dingus—maybe even cool-jacket guy, just to name one of _many_ viable options!—had known that you could dig around in there and just fucking... turn the taps back on.

Andraste's _fucking_ pyre, I hate people.

So we learned all about that. Or at least some of that. Seeker didn't want to open the book until we got back to Skyhold, which I understand. If I'd opened it, I wouldn't have stopped reading it until I was done or I'd ground my teeth so hard I spat blood.

We turned around and went back home. We didn't talk much. Kid rode beside her all the way there, murmuring nice things. 'It's all right to hate them,' was one I heard. 'You know now, you can be better now,' was another.

Maker bless the Kid. Sometimes I think he's the best out of all of us. Maybe because he's the only one who _chose_ to be a person—everyone else was just given it as a birthday present and thought in a vague, soft-spot-on-my-skull way: what am I supposed to do with _this_? I'm a baby. Can I eat this? Oh, no, it just causes me horrible pain. Can I get rid of it, then? Nah, that's what we call cheating, or giving up, or having no morals. You just gotta hurt, forever. Happy birthday!

Fuck that.

By the time we got back to Skyhold I was tenser than an archery cliché. I was as tense as a really fucking angry dwarf, which I'm pretty sure is about as clenched-fisted as you can get before diamonds start forming under the pressure. I knew I needed to go cool off, stay out of the way for a while, because I couldn't risk one of the kids seeing me that mad. I didn't want to upset them. They were good kids, even when they were trying to kill each other.

I went up to my room and thoughtlessly slammed the door, then regretted slamming the door because one of the girls in the bar skipped like the high hills if you so much as sneezed when she isn't expecting it, because she was from Lothering, so I stuck my head out into the hall and called, 'Sorry, Moyna! We love you, you're safe!' as was accepted practice. Then I shut the door again, carefully, and sat down at my half-desk, ready to rip off a fucking _legendary_ riposte to those snide little shits in the Merchant's Guild who kept passive-aggressively threatening to have me dropped off a cliff. That's when I noticed the tray on my desk was empty. Empty, save for a quick little note:

_Creept in when you were down for your cuppa, so you're on first runners today!_

_See you tmrw morn,  
Pippa with the Post xx_

I sat there and stared at it for some minutes.

Perhaps, I thought, this could yet be salvaged. Perhaps Arch sent that letter the very next day after the last one, hence its speedy arrival on the heels of the previous missive. It's not like I wrote the date on them. Perhaps, as it was somewhat more sensitive material, Arch had hired an especially courteous courier, accustomed to working with courtiers, who expect their letters to arrive dazzling white and lightly scented. I thought back to writing that letter. Was it, I asked myself, dazzling white? No, my Tarstrive stationery was a sort of warm yellow. Was it, I attempted to recall, lightly scented? No, I'd only given it a couple of bashes under the jug. If Curly were inclined to sniff this letter in particular (for some reason that escaped me at the moment), it would smell like nothing outstanding, because it would smell like Skyhold.

Well, good thing he wasn't a terrifying spymaster, or a bard, or both. Send Nightingale a letter purporting to be from somewhere else but smelling like home, and she'd have you tied to a chair in a small room before you'd even got your socks on, standing menacingly over you and swinging a lantern, surrounded by a selection of ominous corvidae.

So that was one to put in the 'dubious pros' column of the ledger.

Perhaps, I thought, he hadn't read it. Loaded down with paperwork and communiques from that fine and noble body of men, our troops, he would save the letter for later. Perhaps Curly wouldn't even realize what it was, so accustomed was he to Arch's messages arriving—let's be frank—beat to shit. Or perhaps he just saw that it was my handwriting, that is to say, Varric Tethras' handwriting, and thought, oh, that's probably not as important as all this other mess on my desk, best leave it until tomorrow, he's hared off to Caer Oswin anyway. If it were urgent, I mean to say, it would have URGENT writ large on the outside with a lot of arrows pointing to it to grab the attention.

I got up. I took the knives off my belt and chucked them in the chest at the foot of the bed. I looked at myself in the small glass over the basin and said, 'Don't fuck this up!' to my reflection, and I went out across the battlements to the commander's office.

* * *

Here's how it went:

'Is Curly in, by chance?' I asked an inter-office courier who'd just slipped out the door.

'You got eyes, you can look,' said the lad, dashing off to deliver a fat packet of what were probably those trade agreements the Inquisitor kept signing off on without asking anyone to glance at them first.

I figured that meant 'no', but I knocked anyway. It was the least I could do.

Hah! That's a lie. The least I could have done was never write a romantic letter under an assumed name but forget to put my pen in the appropriate hand for the job. But apparently I like to keep busy, me. Dorian got that right. Always on the go, heart pounding a mile a minute, sporting a grimace of abject existential terror. It's the Tethras way.

(An aside: If I ever got my hands on that time distortion magic crap that Dorian's unstable old patron was messing with, I'd use it to go back and hit Past Me with a brick.)

The office was empty, as I'd expected. I made sure the doors—how do you get any work done with three doors, by the way?—were all shut tight, then started a visual search for the letter, knowing that I might risk discovery if I actually moved anything around. I was standing there, eyes flicking back and forth over the sea of papers on Curly's desk, when I heard footsteps. And not footsteps on flagstones, either. These were on the rungs of a ladder.

The commander descended into the room, noticing me about halfway down. He stopped.

'Master Tethras,' he said. 'Is there... something you require?'

'Who, me? No, just passing by.' I rocked on my heels. 'Thought I'd say hello.'

'I received word you had returned from Caer Oswin with Seeker Pentaghast and the others.' As if that was the same thing.

'Yep,' I said, with a pop. 'Here I am. It'd be kind of rude if they'd left me behind. I'll just be going, then, you've got a lot to do.' And I'd turned for the nearest door and almost reached the handle when he spoke again.

'I believe this is yours.'

I turned back to look at him. He looked kind of funny, just stopped in the middle of the ladder and looking down at me, but then I got the full force of the _looking down_ at me, if you know what I mean. He flicked something tightly-folded through the rungs of the ladder, and it skidded to the floor at my feet. It had been folded up again slightly wrong, in a hurry, but I could still see the scuff left by the bottom of the water jug from my bedroom.

'Curly...' I said, with the slow, up-tilted tone of someone who's got the edge of a hair-splitting axe laid ever so gently on his forehead and is waiting for the weight to follow through, and I would know. 'I can explain.'

He smiled at me, then, and to this day it's one of the most painful things I've ever seen.

That sounds like melodramatic bullshit, doesn't it? But I mean that. I've seen a lot of fucked up things in my day, but I'm good at carving out a little hole for my pain to live in and then pouring mortar in after it so it stays put, stays dead. The big things—the thaig, the attack on Haven, the Fade, Corypheus—I could put those things down in the dark and not look at them too much, _because_ they were too enormous to carry around every minute of the day. I could say to myself, shit, that's _way_ too big to have just lying around, I'll trip on that and break my neck! So I put it all down in the pit and lock up on my way out. But not this. It was so small, so simple, that it felt like being shot.

It's not just that it didn't reach his eyes, it's like the smile didn't even reach his _mouth_. Just the idea of an expression, a twitch of muscle. Habit borne of dealing with people he deeply disliked, and only because he had to.

Only because it was his _job_.

'I'm sure you can,' he said.

For some reason he sounded more thickly Fereldan right then than he had in years. Why is that, I wonder? I know I sound way more Kirkish when I'm upset. Lemme tell you, if the opener of this chapter were a monologue, you'd practically be able to hear the trash.

(As I write this, it's been years since this happened, and I'm _still_ wincing. And stalling.)

'I'm sure you could explain,' he said, 'until I _almost_ believe you.'

Maker, if only he hadn't been up on that ladder. I could have looked him right in the eye, on the level, and told a magnificent, healing lie that would gather up the pieces of this... this... _whatever it was_ and weave them all back together. But he was way up there, and I was way down below. I felt pathetic.

I felt _small_.

I picked up the letter and held it tight in my hand. I couldn't bring myself to look at him fully, but I could manage his boots, so I looked at those.

'I swore to Cassandra I would follow her lead,' Cullen said, and it sounded like he was reminding himself as well as telling me. 'She warned that you were trouble, but in my weakness I...' He stopped, shook his head. 'No matter. Was there anything else?'

I blinked up at him, and I knew my face was going red, felt the hot flush of anger stabbing at my skin like a thousand needles.

_Was there anything else...?_

I'd just wanted to needle him.

'Yeah, actually,' I said. 'There was something.'

The look on his face didn't look like Curly at all. 'Then speak.'

'I thought...'

What _did_ I think? I was thinking a lot of things, true, but my head was mostly filled with the blank white hiss that rises up and presses against the insides of my ears, before I remember what the singing sounds like.

The letter crackled faintly in my fist as it collapsed on itself.

'I thought you were better than that,' I said.

What did that even mean? Shit. I had to get out of there.

'Please leave,' said the commander, almost mildly, 'or I shall have you removed.'

'No need, I'm going.' I jerked the door open, fuming. 'Wait. You know what? No. You don't get to run me off until I've said my bit—'

'Believe me, you've said _more_ than enough.'

If that's how he wanted to be, fine. I'd let him talk to himself.

'Knowing someone felt the way I did made a world of difference.' I'd been holding the letter so tight it hurt. In a flash of spitefulness, I tossed it back at him. 'I believe this is yours.'

I left, the door thudding shut behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of book one. but there's more tale to be told!


End file.
